


Freckle and Frost

by furiedheart



Category: Chris Hemsworth - Fandom, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Anger, Blindness, Blow Job, Chemicals, Fluff, Hospitals, M/M, Medical Restraints, Sabotage, Smut, THRASHING, blurry sex, doctor!chris, extreme eye pain, eye rinsing, eye touching, if you're squeamish about eyes maybe skip this one, injury by chemicals, loss of sight, medical pain, patient!tom, sex without sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 01:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 34,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4328463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furiedheart/pseuds/furiedheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris is on the last leg of his shift when a patient is wheeled into his trauma ward with possible eye damage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freckle and Frost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duskyhuedladysatan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duskyhuedladysatan/gifts).



> Hello everyone. This was influenced by a dream I had of the boys. Tom's eyes were inspired by [this](http://half-ancient.tumblr.com/post/110812736223/cubebreaker-zeus-is-a-rescued-blind-owl-with) owl. I did some research on this and wrote about the medical stuff as I understood it. If anything is incorrect, I'm very sorry. 
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta, [duskyhuedladysatan](http://duskyhuedladysatan.tumblr.com), who holds my hand when I whine. I'm gifting this to you because it was always yours to begin with, my heart *hugs*
> 
> And thank you to [Teresa](http://teresa-dances-in-sequins.tumblr.com) for being mah fren and letting me send her snippets LOL SODA. 
> 
>  
> 
> “You - you alone will have the stars as no one else has them...In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You - only you - will have stars that can laugh.”
> 
> "But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world....”
> 
> ~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
> 
> Check out [this](http://half-ancient.tumblr.com/post/124354532288/fassbender-mcavoyobsessed-insp-freckle-and) AMAZING gifset made by [fassbender-mcavoyobsessed](http://fassbender-mcavoyobsessed.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much! xx

Hospitals were never quiet, no matter what those ER shows would have one believe. Chris knew from experience that somewhere someone was moaning in pain, somewhere someone wept over a death, somewhere a child whimpered from pricking needles and beeping machines that wouldn’t let them sleep. At night, however, the din usually calmed to a steady hum, nurses whispering at their station, doors creaking open as loved ones came and went in search of coffee, their eyes bleary and unfocused. The non-stop activity was part of why he loved being a doctor, and part of why he questioned it all at the end of a long day. Working over sixty hours a week was stressful, erratic hours of sleep and wakefulness even more so. He kept a cot in his office for the off chance he might be able to catch a nap between shifts, but if he wasn’t clocking miles inside the hospital’s vast hallways, then he was doing it on the treadmill at the gym, lifting weights for an hour before trudging his way back home, depleted. Was it healthy? His training said no. But he figured it was better than some of the other bad habits that landed most of his patients at the hospital. And he slept enough, he figured, for thirty-three.

Nearing the end of his shift at nine o’clock that Tuesday night, Chris was making his last rounds when he first heard the commotion. The trauma ward was located next to the Emergency Room, and screams and slammed doors often made their way into the relatively hushed environment Chris and his staff tried to maintain for the trauma patients. Glancing over at Eva, his head nurse, Chris passed her his clipboard and pushed through the double doors.

“Doctor!” someone shouted. Chris poked his head back through the doors.

“Page Livingston, please,”he said to Eva, and then hurried over to the paramedics rolling a gurney into the main lobby of the ER. The people waiting to be seen craned their necks at the spectacle, but Chris used his body to block their view.

A man lay on the gurney, thrashing under the restraints fastened over his thighs and chest. Even still, two more paramedics held down his arms and head, one keeping a firm hand on a cloth over the man’s eyes. His clothing was wet, water still beaded on his throat.

“What’s the status?” Chris asked, pressing two fingers to the man’s neck. Something blue-green was smeared over most of his face, with smaller streaks of red. Might be blood, Chris thought. The man’s pulse was dangerously elevated, his teeth gritted in pain, choking out a scream.

“Lab staff called 911 approximately eleven minutes ago. We were on standby and arrived on the scene in under four.”

“Lab staff?” They bustled through the double doors into a back hallway, pushing the gurney into an empty stall. The Velcro straps were flung off the man and then he was lifted onto the empty bed. He started bucking, hands reaching up to claw at his face, but the medical staff secured his wrists in restraints locked to the bed and he lay there moaning, tossing his head from side to side. Only one of the paramedics stayed behind. His uniform said Marshall.

“Guy’s a scientist or something.”

“Chemist,” the other paramedic called from the doorway before disappearing.

Marshall waved at him. “Yeah. Has a lab over on Highland. Something fell into his eyes.”

Chris moved to peek under the cloth covering the man’s face, but the paramedic shook his head. “Don’t. Not yet.”

“Please…” The man on the bed said. He moaned and shifted his legs. Dressed in slacks and a button up shirt, lanyard hanging from his neck with a photo badge, the man certainly fit the part of some kind of laboratory employee.

Marshall shrugged and headed to the door. “We tried flushing out his eyes in the ambulance but the guy fought us like a wildcat. Pretty strong for being scrawny.” Marshall left, bumping into Dr. Livingston, who arrived snapping on gloves.

"What are you still doing here, Hemsworth? It's been over twenty hours."

Chris was bracing Tom's head down, trying to get him to hold still. "Working, Henry."

“Status?”

Chris reiterated what Marshall had told him. Together, along with two other nurses, they managed to hold the man down to start a thorough flushing of his eyes.

“Sir, can you tell me your name?” Chris asked, adjusting the wheeled tank of water, finally lifting off the cloth. It was soiled blue and green and yellow and red, matching the same splashes stained on the man’s skin. He suddenly understood Marshall’s hesitation about removing the bandage. The man’s eyes were swollen, pasted shut with something crusted and crumbling.

Squirting water into his palm to make sure it was warm enough, Chris held the man’s jaw and turned his head to the side. But the man jerked away.

“Please! I can’t see. I can’t see. Where am I?!”

“Easy now,” Dr. Livingston said. “You’re at St. Mary’s. You’ve had a lab accident. The chemicals you were working with splashed into your eyes. Do you remember what you were doing? Why you weren’t wearing protective eyewear?”

The man began to thrash, making both nurses and both doctors tighten their hold on him.

“Hold still for me, sir,” Chris said, squeezing the hose and aiming the water over the man’s eyes.

But the man writhed terribly in his panic, kicking his legs and straining at his wrist straps. His voice broke with hoarse screams.

“Sedate him,” Chris ordered, and one of the nurses rushed off. She prepped a syringe and passed it to Chris, immediately wiping the crook of the man’s arm with an alcohol swab. The man’s veins were popping in all his exertion, and Chris found one easily, sticking the tip of the needle in. Very slowly, his struggling ceased, body falling limp with exhaustion and drugged paralysis. Still, he sobbed quietly, faintly, into Chris’s palm, barely coherent. Resuming his task, Chris started again with the hose. As water poured over his nose and mouth, brows and forehead, Chris could feel the slippery mess of the man’s face through his gloves, using his thumb to wipe at the gunk crusted over eyelashes he was beginning to see where long and very blond. Breathing evenly, Chris studied the man’s features as he cleaned him up. Fine-boned and pale, hair slicked back but obviously curly. He was slight of body, very thin and long, feet hanging off the edge of the bed. Held tight in their restraints, his hands fluttered weakly, thin fingers clawing at the air. It made Chris’s insides pinch with sympathy.

"He’s conscious,” the nurse said, and Chris nodded.

"I just needed him calm. It’ll stabilize his heart rate.”

“I…I can’t—see. My…my work. My—please. God.” His face crumpled as he wept, fingers trembling violently. 

“It’s alright,” Chris whispered, loosening his hold on the man’s jaw, letting the tips of his fingers drift to his ear, staying put there. Lying spent on the bed, the man moaned quietly, lips trembling through stuttered breaths, through whispers too low to make out.

“We’re all right here. Thank you, Rosie. Maria.”The nurses left and then it was only him, Livingston and the man. Livingston flipped over the man’s I.D. badge on his lanyard. In the picture, the man stared at the camera, rather severe, but handsome.

“Connor-MacWilliams Labs,” Livingston muttered. “Dr. Tom Hiddleston. Chemist. Jesus Christ. There are safety protocols for a reason.”

Chris glanced at him, but said nothing. Henry always did have a tendency of speaking rather openly in front of patients than was advisable. Maybe he counted on the patient being in too much pain to really pay attention.

Careful not to get water up the man’s –Dr. Hiddleston’s–nose, Chris finished with the exterior surface and turned his attention to the interior of Tom’s eyes. Now that he was lying still it was an easier task than before. Most of the stains on his skin were gone, his hair soaked from the hose, but his chest rose and fell with moaned gasps.

Beside them, Livingston’s pager went off. He unclipped it from his belt and peered down at it.

“Needed in Maternity. You okay, here?”  
           

“Yeah. Thanks.”

When Henry was gone, Chris shuffled closer, a hand on the man's shoulder.

“I’m going to open your eyes now. Just pulling the eyelids up very gently, okay?”

Tom said nothing, but whined low as Chris used his thumb to inch up the first eyelid. Any close proximity to a person’s vulnerable areas –eyes, mouth, genitals, throat, stomach–triggered a flight reaction if the source was untrusted. Even if the source was trusted, a baser instinct to back away, to put distance between oneself and the threat often occurred. It’s why ophthalmologist and dentists often had the most difficult patients.

"Wanna tell me your name?” Chris said softly, holding the man’s head and bringing closer a smaller hose. The water was still warm, but the spray less direct, fanned over six tiny holes to ease contact on the eyeball.

“You know it,” Tom whispered, brows pinched. He could sense Chris looming there, sense what he was about to do. Anyone would be upset. Still, Chris’s lips twitched at the sass. “God, it _burns_.”

It was better to do this quickly.

“Well, Tom. My name’s Chris,” he said, lifting the first eyelid and opening the hose. Even under sedation, Tom’s spine arched when Chris sprayed the water over his eyeball, the contaminated liquid spilling from the corner of his eye and dripping to the floor. He cried out weakly, hands straining again. Before he could react further, Chris moved to the next eye, flushing it out with warm water. The lids were just high enough to allow the water in, but not enough to fully see the extent of the damage. Viscous and bright red, Chris only caught a glimpse of both eyeballs, unable to tell anything from them at that point.

When he was finished, he put the hose on a tray and patted Tom’s face down, leaving the cloth over his eyes, letting his hands warm it.

“You’re okay. It’s all okay.”

Muffled, Tom said, “I can’t see.”

It wasn’t because of the cloth, or Chris’s hands over that cloth. It was because they both knew his eyes were most likely damaged from the accident back at the lab. Chris felt a sudden pity that he hadn’t known Tom’s eyes from before.

"We’ll get you changed and into a room. Sleep now. Things will be different when you wake up.” He palmed the top of Tom’s head and Tom stiffened slightly at the touch. It was only after a few long moments that he seemed to give up his fight to stay conscious and sagged into the bed, mouth parted in muted surprise.

“No,” he said softly, just as Chris was about to move away. “They won’t.”

**

It was with muted alarm that Chris witnessed Tom succumb to a severe fever in the hours after he was brought to the hospital. Alarms started sounding in his room as his body temperature rose, the machines monitoring every heartbeat, every flickering brain wave, every rise of warmth in his core. Alerted by Eva, Chris had come running upstairs and into Tom’s room, immediately checking his temperature, holding a stethoscope to his chest. His pulse was elevated, nothing too serious, but his fever would need to be controlled now before it escalated into a bigger problem. Checking Tom’s chart for any known allergies, Chris injected Acetaminophen into his I.V. and packed ice around his feet and neck.

He unwrapped the bandage around Tom’s head to check for further infection around his eyes, but noted nothing different from before. Only continued swelling and a crust flaking form his caked lashes. No matter the flushing with water, his eyes were excreting a substance with which Chris was unfamiliar.

Eyes rolling under his lids, Tom moaned and shifted about under the blankets, fingers opening and closing weakly, wrists strapped to the bed. Chris studied him, noting the high flush on his cheekbones, the sweat dampened hair at his temples, the murmuring. He whispered so low Chris couldn’t make anything, but it made his brow hedge down in worry that the man seemed so entrenched in the fire that was warring in his blood. The chemicals in his eye may have caused a minor infection under the eyelids or possibly spread into the cranial cavity, but Chris would order a CAT scan to make sure there was no swelling behind the optical nerves, just in case.

After wrapping a new bandage over Tom’s eyes, Chris monitored his vitals, lingering longer than was necessary at the edge of his bed, counting the pulse at Tom’s wrist, noting the soft inside of the skin there.

Over the next day, Tom remained asleep. His bed was wheeled to the fourth floor to have scans taken of his brain, and Chris studied the images with a thorough eye, noting nothing of alarm in his cranial activity. His fever had been triggered –if not entirely caused by –his exposure to the chemicals in the substance that had splashed his face. It was a standard response to any foreign body. White blood cells attacked the area and fought to remove what they considered invasive to Tom’s body and health. Hopefully, they would work on his behalf, ridding Tom of that which was harming him the most.

Another day and still Tom slept. A couple of his lab colleagues came to visit him, but because of his precarious condition and since they weren’t related by blood, Chris wasn’t allowed to let them see him. They could always phone the nurses’station for updates.

He executed several exercises to test Tom’s consciousness level. He snapped his fingers over both ears, eyebrows lifting when Tom tilted his head in the direction of the first snap, and then following around where Chris had snapped on the other side. But he remained unconscious, even if it was obvious to Chris that Tom was nearer to waking than not. As a body fought to reinforce itself against illness or abuse, it would often steel itself with fatigue and the urge to sleep. Resting gave the body strength, and looking down at Tom’s thin form prone on the bed, he hoped he would make it out of this alright enough to tell them all what happened back at his lab.

He would check on him just before he left for home, tracking his vitals and giving him small tests, urging Tom to return to consciousness. His eyes were still too swollen to fully examine, the area beneath the lid raw and gummy. He flushed his eyes out twice more, Tom never stirring during the process, but it was such a tight space to maneuver the hose around that he wasn’t sure if he’d gotten all of the chemicals out in time. He certainly hoped he had, and he certainly hoped Tom woke up soon.

**

It hadn’t worked out as planned.

And Tom had planned, meticulously, every step of his trials, determined not to sully his research with something as deplorable as human error.

Tom could still remember walking into the lab that morning, awake for hours already, on his fourth cup of coffee. Stephen and Genevieve were at their counters, prepping his material for that day. Stephen was an intern still in the deeper throes of medical school and Genevieve was a fellow chemist, recently come off a successful trial of her own research and waiting on funding for human trials. Both competent and careful, he was pleased to know.

Tom’s own trials were to begin at noon, and would continue for the next four weeks depending on his analysis. Tom was confident they would produce viable results for patients with primary intraocular cancers. There were many types, but Tom’s research focused on intraocular melanoma, a disease that had affected his mother’s sight later in life, and ultimately aided in her death, allowing for all manner of complications to her health to arise and conquer her in the end. For the past four years, he had been developing a type of ink that could be used like eye drops, only it would help restructure the choroid cells so that the melanoma could begin to disperse and ultimately disappear. It was a way to identify the structure of the malignant cells and target them for extinction. It was currently the most aggressive form of research being conducted, not ready for human trials until conclusive results could be found in the mice.

And then this.

How it had happened, Tom wasn’t sure. He blamed Ray. And that pregnant wife of his, who happened to have gone into labor just as Ray was shrugging into his lab coat.

“I have to go!”he shouted in Tom’s direction, staring down at his phone, mouth flapping open and shut. “Cover my trials!”

“I’m performing my own,” Tom cut in, but Ray was out the door. With an aggrieved sigh, Tom set the first of his trials on timer, letting the process work itself through until he could make adjustments after fixing Ray’s problem. He managed to procure an assistant from the office next door, instructing her to run a study based on Ray’s trials from the day before. It was highly uncouth and unprofessional to insert a substitute chemist on an ongoing trial, and an assistant at that, but it was the most he could do on such short notice. He had planned on speaking to Mitchell about it later that day. But now, the point was moot.

Had Ray, in his haste, dropped that vial onto the rubber-matted floor? Tom remembered bending over and retrieving it, muttering something about requesting lab-wide safety procedures training. Putting the vial down, he noticed a fine hair stuck in the center of his goggles, and pulled them off to wipe on his lab coat. He recalled hearing the door open as he took a step toward his station, and then—

But he remembered nothing after that.

Only the burning pain, falling to the floor, things crashing around him. There were shouts from the assistants scrambling to help him, gloved hands keeping his head up, wiping the toxic substance away, dragging him to the shower stall in the corner of the room, water gushing down on his face and body. He had sputtered and cried out, gripping someone’s arm, Genevieve’s maybe, as she cooed at him to stay calm, patting his hair like a child.

Rage burned through him, batting away at her hands. His trials! His work unmanned. Left to sit on its own, useless without him. He was on the verge of discovering if his dye drops worked, if it pinpointed the origin of the melanoma, if he could save lives so people wouldn’t suffer the same fate as his mother.

The ambulance ride was hazy. More hands on him, unwanted. The painful procedure in the first room, with the two men and women, holding him down. Waking again just this moment, blind and disoriented. Something was wrapped around his head, gauze perhaps. He tried lifting his hand but his wrists were still strapped down.

"Hello?” he called, voice breaking. There was sand in his throat, raw. “Hey.” He pulled his legs up at the knee, realizing he wore a gown, cool air rushing up his naked legs. “Hey! Let me out of these. Hello!”

His wrists ached, no doubt bruised purple, chafed. Every sense was on alert, all working save his useless eyes. He wanted to cry, could feel it in his chest, but nothing happened behind his lashes, no buildup of liquid, no tears. Swollen and glued shut, his eyes were, in fact, useless to him.

Shit.

All around he sensed movement, but farther away, in another room perhaps. Beeping machines and gushes of air, wheels rolling on linoleum floors, whispers and cries. If he allowed himself, he could easily imagine he was in some dungeon of sorts, tortures that awaited him. So he didn't allow himself, shaking off the image and trying to focus. Naked, tied down, sightless, he felt vulnerable on that bed even if he knew these were trained professionals who wouldn’t hurt him. But hospitals had always made him uneasy after so many visits with his grandmother when he was a child. They smelled funny, and were brightly lit with fluorescence that made him squint.

“Hello, Tom.”

Tom flinched, jumping away from the voice. He turned in its general direction, heart rate spiking.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Eva. I’m head nurse here in the Trauma Unit. You’ve had an accident. Welcome back.”

Back? He sensed she had moved closer by the volume of her voice and he tugged on his restraints again.

“Take these off me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that until the doctor’s been by to examine you.”

“How dare you keep me in these things like some kind of criminal. I’m a doctor, too.”

“So was Frankenstein,” she said, her laugh trickling over him like a bell. “And we all knew what he did.”

Speechless, Tom sat there. She moved along his bedside, and he heard small, plastic sounding noises.

“What are you doing?” His voice was shot, gravelly. He cleared his throat, trying to soothe it.

“Just checking your vitals. You’ve been asleep for four days.”

“And in all that time a doctor hasn't been in to see me?”

“Of course they have! Both Dr. Livingston and Dr. Hemsworth have been by.”

Which was Chris? The man who had helped him? His voice was nice. His touch had been gentle, even through that godforsaken flushing.

"Hello there, Tom.”

Tom flinched again. A man had entered the room, and Tom turned to him, frustrated with his blindness. He couldn’t tell where anyone was until they made a sound, and it made him feel suddenly very afraid.

"Tom, I’m Henry Livingston. How are you feeling?”

In all honesty, Tom felt weak and disoriented, fatigued from hunger and the semi-coma. “Get these off me,” he said, yanking at his wrist straps.

“I just need to perform a routine evaluation before I do that. It’s best if there is no ability to touch your face while I check your eyes.”

"Don’t touch me,” Tom whispered, leaning back, unsure how close the man was. He turned his head left and right. Where were they? Where had they gone?

"Tom, it’s really alright. These two gentlemen are here to help. We ask that you please cooperate.”

“No,” Tom said, voice rising. “Don’t—.” He hadn’t even known there were two other men in the room. Who were they?

Vaguely, he heard Livingston say to someone, “We need to check his eyes, keep a hand on him while I do.”

Panicked, Tom tried to lean away, bracing himself, held in place by his restraints. “Which men? Wait! I’m—I’m not…I said wait!”

A big hand gripped his arm, another clamped to his shoulder. Tom recoiled, shouting at them to back away. They struggled for a moment, Tom kicking his legs, making contact with a tray that clattered to the ground. Eva gasped to his right, whispering to the doctor, and Tom’s breath left him in one giant swoop as his panic constricted his lungs. He gave a small cry.

A door slammed against the wall.

“Hey! Hey, stop!”

Another voice, familiar. Honeyed, rolling.

The hands on him were suddenly hauled away and he was left alone on the bed, breathing ragged. The gauze pulled tight on his face, and his head swam with dizziness, but there was someone beside him, a big solid warmth and he curled close to it, arms trembling.

“You called security?” Chris said, because it was obviously him. His voice was hard to forget. It was the voice he'd been listening for since waking.

“He’s violent,” Livingston said from across the room.

“He doesn't like being touched," Chris fired back. Tom froze, listening. "And he’s frightened. He’s suffered a serious accident and just woke up from an extended period of unconsciousness.”

“We need to check his eyes. He’s been belligerent since he arrived. Security was only a precaution.”

“I’ll do it,” Chris said. “You can leave.”Tom assumed he was speaking to security. The door opened and closed after a tense moment and then Eva’s voice.

“Should I stay?”

“No, Eva. You and Henry can go. Thank you. Dr. Hiddleston’s going to cooperate with me, isn’t he?” Chris’s voice shifted and Tom could tell he was looking down at him. Tom nodded after a moment and Chris patted his shoulder, a touch that was both sudden and gentle, but oddly relieving. He didn’t fight it.

When they were alone, Chris sat at the edge of the bed.

“You’re a tomcat, more like.”

Tom sniffed and braced his weight on the palms of his hands, trying to sit up.

“Here,” Chris said, pulling out a set of keys. Tom heard them jingle in his hands, ears perking up at the sound.

He took Tom’s wrists and unlocked the restraints. Tom yanked his hands up to his chest, rubbing them.

“You were trying to claw your eyes out when you got here. Still have scratches on your face. That’s why these were on you. They thought you would continue your attempt.”

“They?”

“We,” Chris corrected. He cleared his throat. “Didn’t expect a chemist to be so ornery.”

“I get it. I’m not the easiest person to deal with. Let’s move on.”

“I’m happy you’re back. You tried your hardest to sink into that fever.”

“Have I really been asleep for four days?”

“Yes. How old are you, Tom?”

Slowly touching around his face, Tom whispered, “Thirty-two.”His skin felt clammy and bruised. “Am I bruised?”

“Only around your eyes, from what I recall. And the scratches from that night.”

From that night. Tom found the phrase oddly intimate and was glad for the bandage hiding his face.

"What's happened? Have any of my staff called about me?"

"A Genevieve called. She's the one who told me that you're touchy about touching."

"Not necessarily," Tom muttered, but realized it held more truth than he thought. Had he been so skittish about his own personal space that his own staff had known this without his directly telling them?

“I need a phone,” he rasped. “I need to call my staff and ask about my work.”

“You can call after I’m through,” Chris said, reaching up to hold Tom’s head. Tom startled, clasping Chris’s forearms with both hands. “Sorry. I’ll be touching you now. I’ll unwrap your bandage and then feel around your face, and look into your eyes. Romantic, huh?”

Tom blushed and dropped his hands.

“Just trying to make you smile.” Tom could hear the smile in Chris’s own voice, and very suddenly wished he knew what he looked like. From the height of his voice –and really, how else could he describe it? –Chris sounded tall, stronger than most maybe. It was the depth of his voice that denoted strength, in Tom’s mind. A silly thing, given he couldn’t compare to what only his eyes could confirm.

“Tell me about your work,” Chris prompted as he unwrapped the gauze one strip at a time. Thumbs twining nervously in his lap, Tom cleared his throat.

“I’m a chemist. I’m currently working on the development of a medicated dye for melanoma in the eye. Most melanoma cancer cells start in the iris. Cause tumors in the eye. It’s very rare, but I think with my findings it could really help a lot of people.”

“The eyes, huh?”

“I know,” Tom whispered. “The irony isn’t lost on me.”

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t remember. I remember the before and after. Vaguely.”

“Okay,” Chris said easily, tugging the last strip of gauze from the sticky iodine residue on Tom’s skin. It stained most of his face a pumpkin orange, but it took nothing away from what was clearly one of the prettiest faces Chris had seen, all cut angles and smooth skin. Bunching up the gauze in his hands, Chris stared his fill, knowing at least that the iodine smears weren’t hurting him, not like the multi-colored substance he had been rolled in wearing.

Tom waited, noting how still Chris had become, how quiet. He tried hard not to fidget.

“I can’t open them,”he said quietly, his lashes stuck together.

“Oh. Yes. I’ll grab something.” Chris moved away and Tom’s hand dropped down to the sheets, soaking in the warmth left in his wake. He returned a moment later with a warm, moist cloth.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, wiping at Tom’s eyes.

“Only aches. Sore a bit.”

Chris’s grip softened, clearing off the gunk from Tom’s eyes. His lids started to come unstuck, and he tried blinking, but Chris whispered for him to wait. After another minute of wiping, Chris lowered the cloth.

"Try now.”

Fingers curled in the sheets, Tom attempted to open his eyes, the fine muscles of his face working to obey the signals in his brain.

“It’s okay,” Chris whispered, putting a hand on one of his bruised wrists. “You’re doing great. A little more.”

With a final lift of his brows, Tom felt his eyelids separate, felt the cool air of the room hit his eyeballs. But all he saw was darkness. Not a single shape or color.

Chris inhaled sharply, and Tom’s pulse sped up. He made a small sound in the back of his throat, already lifting his hands. But Chris kept them low on his lap.

“Don’t. You don’t want to contaminate the area. Let me see.”

Keeping his hands wrung together, Tom let Chris guide his head to the bed behind him, face angled up at the ceiling. He was starting to feel woozy, unsure where up was from down, like the bed might shift and tumble with him rolling away on it. Hovering over him, Chris muttered to himself, his great big hands framed over both sides of his face, fingers touching a delicate circle around the skin of his eyes. 

Spooked by the angle of his face and his proximity to the chasm he felt yawning beneath his bed, Tom’s hand shot up and clutched at Chris’s shirt, something soft and well-worn, a doctor’s scrubs.

“I won’t let anything happen,” Chris whispered, letting a hand drift almost absentmindedly to Tom’s neck, cupping him there. His fingers probed around his eyes, lifting the lids just a bit higher. Tom could feel the heat of his gaze, and knew his cheeks had gone red. He breathed shakily out through his nose.

“Amazing,” Chris whispered, breath tufting softly over the bridge of his nose. Spearmint, and just beneath that the grind of coffee.

“What is it? Why did you gasp?”

“It’s…Tom, I can’t believe it.”

“What!”

"Eva, page Dr. Livingston.” Chris had spoken into a receiver by the bed, but his words alarmed Tom.

“No. Don’t call that man. I don’t like him. What do you need him for?”

“He’s Chief of Surgery. He’s a good man and a fine doctor. You’re in good hands, Tom.”

Tom’s grip tightened in Chris’s shirt, loathe to let him walk away.

“You’ll stay?”

A firm hand on his shoulder. “Yes. I’ll be right here.”

The man arrived a few minutes later, his gaze on Tom like a laser on his skin. Ducking his head, Tom kept his eyes closed as the doctor approached.

“How are you feeling, Tom?”

Tom didn’t answer, keeping his head turned in Chris’s general direction.

"Henry, I’ve checked his eyes and witnessed an anomaly I am unfamiliar with. Would you mind taking a look?”

"Not at all.” The man patted around his pockets and Tom heard the sound of plastic clicking together –the doctor must have put on glasses. Tom listened to the noises, trying to identify what every scuff meant, every swish and rasp.

“I’m right here, Tom,” Chris said, hands back on his face, applying gentle pressure to tilt his neck. “Lean your head back. There you go. Perfect. Henry?”

Tom could hear the man breathing and it made his skin crawl. His hand inched to the side, bumping into Chris’s leg. He twisted his fingers into the material, holding still.

"You’re doing great, Tom,” Chris whispered, one hand covering the crown of Tom’s head, thumb smoothing his brow.

“Let’s see now,” Dr. Livingston said to himself. “Open, please.”

Tom stayed frozen, swallowing around his mounting dread.

“Just for a moment. It’s alright,” Dr. Livingston cajoled. Tom’s fingers curled tighter in Chris’s pants leg.

“Tom?” Chris said above him, and Tom’s eyes sprang open.

“Oh my,” Dr. Livingston said, poking his cool fingers into Tom’s cheeks, tugging at the skin. Tom’s eyes bounced around in their sockets, seeing nothing, feeling everything. He started a slow slide away from the man, who bent over him with quiet mutters, trying to peer deeper into his eyes. Tom finally whimpered and yanked his chin away.

“Alright,” Chris said, patting his chest. “You’re okay.”

“This is unlike anything I’ve seen,”Dr. Livingston was saying. He backed away and Tom took a deep breath, feeling the wire in his chest loosen.

“What is it?” Chris asked, and the way they spoke over him in tones bordering on uncertain made Tom very nervous.

“I need to call my lab,” he said quietly, but Chris kept a hand on his chest, focusing on Dr. Livingston, who had started to pace.

“Why do they look like that?”

Tom tugged on Chris’s shirt. “Like what?”

Dr. Livingston piped in. “It appears as if the irises are broken. The entire sclera is obscured with dark blue. Do we know his original eye color?”

"Blue,” Tom said softly.

“Even if his eyes look like, well, a starry midnight sky, those pinpricks of 'light' are just the whites of his eyes poking through his broken irises. It's amazing. But they really do look magical. Although if you ask me, he will attest to the experience being anything but.”

“I’m right here,” Tom said, his head beginning to spin.

“I need to go do some reading on this, Chris. Find out what was in that substance he came in contact with. Thank you, Tom. I’ll be back later.” The door opened and closed.

Around the edge of his eyes a terrible itching had started up, and he lifted his hands to scratch his face. “I need…a phone.”

“I don’t know how broken irises can obscure the entire sclera,” Chris was saying, almost to himself. “It’s too opaque.” His hand on Tom’s chest was gone, and Tom half-reached with one arm while scratching with the other. He met only open air. Chris wasn’t close enough.

"Chris,” he whispered and then Chris was back at his side.

“Oh, Tom. No. No, no. Don’t do that.” Chris pulled Tom’s hands away from his face and Tom moaned his protest.

“It itches. Chris, please.” But Chris was securing his wrists back into the restraints, talking as he worked.

“Open air on the iodine does that. Or it could be a side effect of the chemicals. We won’t know until the iodine can come off. I need to wrap your face again.”

“Chris, no. Please, it’s terrible.” Tom angled his neck to the side and started rubbing his face on the pillow, seeking relief. Was the itching terrible? Or the blindness?

“Chris.” He lifted his spine, the itch driving him mad.

“Easy. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

"Your hands. Just put them on my face. Please. Please.”

Wrenching at his restraints, Tom moaned aloud when Chris’s warm hands finally bracketed his cheeks.

“Higher,” he breathed. “Please. Just…the itching.”

Gently, using only his fingertips, Chris massaged the skin around Tom’s eyes, easing the itch with small circles.

“Yes…” Tom sagged against the bed, his body bowed toward Chris, who sat high on the edge next to him. It was strangely erotic.

“Better?” he heard, a soft word, uttered in quiet confidence, like an intimate secret.

“Yes,” Tom whispered, smiling for the first time since…well, he couldn’t remember. He lay relaxed against the pillow as Chris wrapped his head again in fresh gauze.

“A little something to help you sleep,” he said, voice angled away. Tom heard the snip of plastic and then his veins became flooded with feathers, a deep contentment in his bones, a ride on a cloud. There was an I.V. in his arm somewhere, surprised it hadn’t been yanked out during the tussle with the security guards earlier.

“You…you won’t…go?”

Sitting back beside him, Chris leaned across his body and stared down at Tom, who blinked, still surprised to have his eyes open and see nothing. But he felt him there, just there.

Tom shuddered as whatever drug he was given settled deeper in his blood, like a cat curling around a warm hearth to sleep.

“You don’t want me to go?”

Was that a finger at his temple, grazing? Tom’s consciousness grew heavier and he couldn’t fight it any longer. The cloud was too tempting, the hearth so perfect.

"No,” he said, voice barely there. “No…don’t.”

**

Chris watched Tom sleep for a few minutes. His own eyes had begun to droop. How long had he been up this time? Twenty-three hours? He should have gone home as soon as Tom was secure in a room, but he hadn’t been able to muster the will once he fell into his fever. Instead, he covered more rounds and stayed on a few extra hours, repeating the routine over the next several days, only to find Tom today thrashing in bed with two ex-mall cops trying to hold him down. Chris couldn’t believe the flame of anger he felt at seeing such a display of thoughtless aggression. Tom’s bewildered face, the immediate way he calmed once he knew Chris was there, it all made his decision to linger on easier on his mind.

Chris sighed and rubbed his face.

His office and the cot that waited there suddenly seemed so far away. It would be no problem at all curling into Tom’s hospital bed to sleep beside him, both keeping the other warm in the arctic temperatures kept at the hospital.

The thought startled him, and he rose quickly to his feet, Tom’s head lolling on the pillow. Where had it come from? Certainly Tom was attractive, but he’d never had so sudden an urge to seek intimacy with a patient before. It was unnerving, but made Chris feel a little tendril of warmth in his chest looking fondly down at Tom.

Hitching the blanket higher on his shoulders, he tucked it in so Tom wouldn’t become cold during the night. In the end, he knew he needed to leave. Quickly, he checking Tom’s vitals and flicked off the overhead light. Only the soft glow of the muted lamp behind the bed illuminated Tom’s prone form, the gauze covering the upper half of his face doing nothing to prevent Chris from picturing it still.

Tom didn’t want him to leave, but he really had to. He was dead on his feet, and it would be highly inappropriate and unethical to be discovered wrapped closely around a patient, however lovely the idea seemed to him, however foreign in his work environment.

The sedative he gave Tom should keep him under for four to six hours. He set an alarm on his wristwatch and then quietly shut the door behind him.

**

Tom woke with a splitting headache, pain jabbing down his neck. The words _starry midnight sky_ flared in his mind and he moaned, shifting on the bed. The soft hum of hushed whispers suddenly fell silent and Tom froze. With his wrists once again bound to the bed, he couldn’t ignore the flash of anxiety in his heart. But Chris had done that, he recalled, to stop me from scratching my eyes.

Someone cleared their throat in the room and Tom turned to the sound. It felt suddenly very warm, his skin prickling with awareness of someone watching him.

“Who’s there?”

“Tom, good morning. It’s Henry again. Do you remember when I visited last night to check your eyes?”

Wary, Tom nodded.

“Great. Dr. Hemsworth said—.”

“Chris?” Tom tugged on his restraints.

“Yes. His name’s Chris. Here, let me unbuckle these for you. You won’t start scratching again?”

 _Maybe_. “No,” he murmured. As Dr. Livingston unlocked his restraints, Tom’s ears buzzed trying to locate every sound in the room. The muted whispers had started up again and Tom held his head low, feeling like an animal on display.

“Who is here?” he asked once his hands were free.

To Tom’s dismay, Dr. Livingston patted his arm quickly before withdrawing.

“Tom, present here are some of my graduate students. I’ve done some research on your eye abnormality and we think that it’s something of value to—.”

“Where’s Chris?”

There was some shuffling but Tom held his head cocked, waiting.

“Dr. Hemsworth is sleeping,” a young woman piped in.

_You don_ _’_ _t want me to go?_

Tom inhaled quietly. The words sounded like Chris’s in his head. Had they said something to each other before Tom fell asleep last night? What had Tom said in return?

“Yes,” Dr. Livingston said. “Dr. Hemsworth was up for nearly a full day when you were brought in earlier this week. It might not have caught up to the sleep he needs since then. But that’s neither here nor there. We were wondering if the students could take a look at your eyes. Witness the anomaly for themselves?”

Tom picked at the coverlet. “How many are there?”

“There are six of us,” said the same girl from before. She sounded tiny.

“And we won’t touch you,” a boy said. His words were followed by a quiet smack, like on a shoulder, and a quick _shh._

Tom’s lips quirked up at the corners.

“It will only be for a few minutes. And then perhaps you can answer some questions for the students?”

Swallowing around his nervousness, Tom nodded. “Yes, alright.”

“Excellent! Thank you, Tom. I’ll unwrap your bandages now.”

Holding his breath so as not to breathe in the man’s scent, Tom let Dr. Livingston work the gauze in loose circles until he once more felt cold air rush against his sensitive skin. Instinctively, Tom kept his eyes closed, the residual burn of the chemicals making it harder to accept the lack of tears. His eyes should be watering to ease the sting. Where were his tears? Had his ducts been damaged too?

"Does it hurt?" One of the students asked.

"Please save all your questions until the end," Dr. Livingston said. "Gather round the bed. Good. Now, Dr. Hiddleston was brought in four nights ago after suffering from a lab accident where his eyes were exposed to dangerous chemicals. They were flushed out upon arrival but we were unable to see his eyes with any kind of closeness until approximately four hours after he arrived. Tom, would you open your eyes now. The students will each take a turn examining them."

"Okay," Tom whispered, leaning his head back on the pillow and taking a deep breath. He blinked his eyes open and stared up, seeing nothing.

"Hi, Tom." Female voice. A bit timid. "I'm Anna." He felt her lean close, a shift of paper, and then her startled gasp. One by one each student came to stand over him, muttering to themselves and typing out notes on keyboards of sorts. Guess the days were gone where one took notes on actual paper, as he had done.

“Now. Who would like to describe what they’ve seen?

“Scientific terms?” someone asked.

“Let’s keep it layman,” Tom whispered, rubbing his temples. “I’m a doctor, but my head is pounding.”

“We can give you something for that, Tom,” Dr. Livingston said. “Only a few minutes more.”

In summary, much of what the students described matched the conversation Livingston had had with Chris the night before. Tom felt a twinge of remorse that Chris wasn’t present at the moment.

“Do you find that you forget to blink?”

Tom paused. “Have I not blinked this whole time?”

Anna laughed quietly. “Only nine times since we’ve been here.”

“That’s observant.”

“We’ll provide drops for the dryness, Tom,” Livingston said. The mention of drops turned Tom’s stomach sour and he dropped his chin. He made it a point to close his eyes and keep them closed.

“Are you in pain?” someone asked again, and Tom nodded.

“A bit, yes. When I first got here it was excruciating. A terrible burning. But now, it’s more an ache. I feel they even throb. But it’s not as sharp as before.”

More clacking keys.

“Doctor, are the irises broken?”

“We’re not sure,” Livingston said. “Tom’s eyes are extremely sensitive right now and it would cause him great discomfort to probe further than what he’s allowed thus far. But from what we can see, it’s almost like a painting, yes?”

The students murmured softly, tapping their keys.

“Like stars,” Anna said, and Tom turned in her direction, wishing he knew what they were talking about.

“Would you be able to give us a list of the chemicals you were exposed to? It seems their unique combination has created an anomaly unseen before.”

All of the ‘seeing’references were beginning to irk Tom, but he couldn’t exactly blame them. It was a figure of speech deeply ingrained in a person’s vernacular.

“Only if necessary. The formula is something I designed for eye cancer.”

There was a heavy silence and Tom sighed, wishing that would get easier to mention. It was his entire career—.

“Alright, that’s seems to be enough for now. Tom, I’ll send in a nurse with pain medication. Thank you so much.”

Tom nodded and rested his head back, eyes still closed.

He heard them file out one by one and then he was alone. Or so he thought.

Something clacked beside him and he inhaled sharply. Spearmint and coffee.

“Chris.”

The person froze; he could sense it, the air going very still. But then the feathers began to drift into his blood and he smiled softly. Chris had given him something for the pain. How thoughtful. Even if it was his job.

“I thought you’d fallen asleep,” Chris said. “How did you know?”

Tom hummed and burrowed deeper into the pillow. “You smell nice.”

Chris chuckled and sat at the edge of the bed. Tom felt it dip, felt the heat of Chris’s hip by his own. “I’m sorry I was late. I set my alarm but slept through it by like a half hour.”

“It’s okay,” Tom said faintly. “You were tired.”

“You were great with the grads.”

“I was in their position once too. Only they didn’t let us out of the lab much.” Tom laughed low, a wave of drowsiness washing over him. “How long have you been here?”

“Since you opened your eyes.”

“Are they terrible?”

“They are for what you’ve suffered. But really, they’re so beautiful, Tom. Like the sky—.”

“At night,” Tom whispered. His hand drifted over the coverlet until his knuckles bumped Chris’s knee. “I know. I keep trying to picture it.”

Chris’s sighed, knee shifting closer. Several moments passed and Tom rolled his head to stay awake.

“Please say something,” he murmured. “Since all this, silences have me nervous.”

“I’m sorry,” Chris said quickly. “I was just…”

“Looking?”

Chris burst a quick breath through his nose. “Yes. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Tom squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the fatigue. “I’d rather you than anybody.”He gritted his teeth and groaned against the stubborn prick behind his eyelids, his eyeballs feeling thick and swollen. “What’s the point?” he said, voice breaking. “Of opening them? Everyone’s trying to see them, and I’m just trying to cope with the fact that my sight’s gone. Why open them if I can’t see?”

The tears should be there, but there were none.

“I like them,” Chris whispered, and Tom blinked up at him. “I do. They’re very beautiful. Like something out of a fairy tale.” He cleared his throat and turned away perhaps, Tom wasn’t sure.

Hoping Chris didn’t scare easy, he said, “Well for you I’ll keep them open. But no one else.”

Chris’s small chuckle, quiet, from the well of his chest, assured Tom that he didn’t.

“Are my irises really broken?”

“I haven’t been able to tell.”

“I’ll let you look,” Tom heard himself say.

“Yeah? You won’t fight me? Try to punch me?”

“You, no. Others yes.”

“They’re just trying to help.”

“I don’t contest an instinct. My instinct with them is stay away.”

“And with me?”

Tom shrugged, feeling himself slip further under the blanket thrown over him by the pain medication. “With you, not so much.”

Chris was quiet for a moment. And then, “That’s good, Tom.”

Another minute passed. Tom was beginning to drift off when Chris said, “Should I check your eyes now?”

Startling awake, Tom said. “Yes. Because I have to take a piss after.”

“Fine,” Chris said, smiling. “I’ll take you after.”

He elevated the bed and helped Tom sit up. Grabbing a penlight, he stood over the head of the bed.

“Usually iris damage is caused by blunt force trauma. This isn’t the case with you, so I’m wondering if it might be…” He took Tom’s face in both hands and Tom almost moaned, realizing he’d missed the touch. This was all rather foreign to him, seeing someone and beginning to pine.

“It might be what?” he whispered, batting his eyes up at the ceiling.

Chris used his thumbs to pull down the skin of Tom’s upper cheeks, staring down at the curve of Tom’s eyeball in its socket. The sclera was peeking through beneath the bottom lid, the dark blue of the rest of the eye not quite reaching all the way down. He checked under the upper lid and found the same characteristic. The darkest part of the blue was only in the visible area of Tom’s eyes, throughout the sclera and over where the iris and pupil should be. But it was prominently dark, with schisms of light darting over the orb of his eye.

“Tom, I don’t know how to explain this, but it appears as if the surface of your eyeball is just the first layer of something deeper. It looks three dimensional even. Like I’m looking down into a bowl of a…well, a universe.” He sighed and pulled back. “That was stupid. I should know better than to make an analysis fanciful like that.”

“You don’t think my irises are broken.”

“No,” Chris said, turning from the bed and rummaging in the drawers of a nearby tray table. “I don’t. You might not be able to see because your eyes did suffer a reaction to trauma, which were the burning chemicals. Maybe it’s permanent. I don’t know. Only time will tell. But if my hunch is right, perhaps you’ll gain your sight back.”

Tom popped his head up. “Really?” His fatigue dissipated by a small degree, ears perked up at the noises Chris was making searching for something.

“Damn. This isn’t one of my usual rooms. Gimme a sec.” His steps faded away and Tom couldn’t tell if he was still in the room. Bunching the sheets in both hands he looked left and right.

“Chris?”

“Here,” Chris called and then approached again. “Sorry. I found the cotton swabs. Tom, do you think it would be all right if I took a swab of your eye? Just the corner. It won’t hurt—.”

“Yes.”

Chris stared down at him. “Yes? Just like that?”

“Will you continue making me reiterate how you are allowed to do things others are not?”

Chris laughed quietly and squeezed a bruised wrist. “Okay. Thank you.”

With very soft words, Chris explained his every move: gripping Tom’s jaw to angle his head into better light, fingers curled around the back of his skull to hold him steady, counting down to three until the tip of the fuzzy swab grazed the corner of his eye, sinking into the sclera and pulling away again instantaneously.

Tom lay as still as he could, breathing out tiny breaths that were on the verge of panic. When he felt the cotton tip touch his eye, he flinched back into the bed, but Chris was already drawing it away, whispering that it was all fine, that he did wonderful. Breathing heavy, he heard the beat of his own heart in his ears, _boom boom boom._ He swallowed, soaking in the feel of Chris’s hand absentmindedly smoothing over his hair in gratitude, in comfort. It was a quick touch, soft and kind, and so intimate Tom almost called him back for another. But he heard Chris talking to himself as he retreated to a counter and secured the sample he’d taken.

Tom had an idea of the train of thought Chris was after, and he wondered if it were possible. It was true that the original dye set for trials a day or so ago had been designed to be thick at first, with every new trial indicative of adjustments found from previous trials. Eventually Tom wanted to hone the dye to be as thin as possible, so as not to blind the patient, as had happened with him. He’d received two eyefuls of the formula and perhaps that is what he was feeling, a congealed skin over his eye, formatted to resist something like water, which could wash away the melanoma indicators. It would act like a cap, almost, adhering to his skin like very large contacts, preventing him from seeing anything, providing a world of pure darkness. He had yet to design the wash-away formula, his entire research dependent on how the dye worked above anything else. Following the success of his dye, he had planned on retroactively creating that which could wash away what had been made originally.

Chris was snapping drawers closed and bending low writing something on a label.

“Chris?”

“—Could be why it’s hardened. But I wonder why—.”

“Chris.”

“Although there’s been almost no—.”

“Darling.”

Something clattered to the countertop, followed by a nearly shaky, “Yes?”

“I need to pee, please.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” He finished what he was doing and then he was at Tom’s side. Taking both hands he guided Tom to a sitting position, helping him bring his legs around to hang near the floor. Tom moaned as his back stretched, sore from lying down for so long.

“Okay, easy now. Stand up with me. There you go.” Chris hauled him up with both hands, Tom gripping him tightly as the world spun.

“Jesus, it’s like I lost all equilibrium.”

“Careful where you step.” On shaky legs, with his I.V. stand trailing them, Tom made it to the bathroom with Chris’s help. With fingers on Tom’s wrist, he set him before the toilet and showed him where the lever was to flush, where the sink was to wash his hands.

“Thank you,” Tom said quietly, hands moving to lift the hem of his hospital gown. The I.V. stand jostled as his foot bumped into the base.

“Please don’t fall,” Chris said, keeping a hand on his elbow.

Tom smirked. “I’ll try my best. Although I’ll be very disappointed if you don’t catch me.”

Chris let his elbow go, whispering that he would be just outside the door.

Tom tried not to sway as he relieved himself, but he still needed to keep a hand on the sink to stop from toppling over. After washing his hands, he stood there for a full minute before calling for Chris, who suddenly appeared.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know where the paper towels are.”

Chris tore a strip free and Tom dried his hands. They walked back to the bed, where he curled up on his side.

“Are you hungry? Do you need anything?”

“Mm. No. But thank you. Isn’t this what an orderly should be handling, rather than the doctor?” He let his teasing lilt his words.

“You prefer that?” Chris’s own voice was playful.

Tom reached a hand blindly and gripped found Chris’s wrist. He squeezed. “No, please. I was just kidding.”

“That’s what I thought. Mad scientist.”

Tom grinned, tempted to let his fingers drift lower into Chris’s palm. But he let him go after a moment, relaxing against the pillows.

“Rest now,” Chris said. “I’ll be in later to check on you.”

“’Kay,” Tom murmured, yawning. “Thank you, Chris.”

Palming his arm, Chris nodded. He gave his elbow a squeeze. “You’re welcome, Tom.”

Tom was already asleep by the time he left the room and ran up to the fourth floor, hand flexing where Tom had held him for the shortest of moments.

**

Henry was scribbling paperwork on his desk when Chris burst in.

“I took a swab of his eye—.”

“Whose eye?”

“Tom’s eye. The chemist.”

“You took a _swab?_ But how?”

“He let me.”

“He let you?”

Chris glanced around, hands on his hips. “Yes.”

Henry whistled. “The man is quite taken with you.”

“Stop. He isn’t.”Still his wrist felt warm from before, heard the echo of _darling._

“Asking for you. Letting you do things without a fuss. While the rest of us need security.”

“I still think that was a bad call.”

Sitting forward in his chair, Henry continued writing something into a folder.

“Also why did you bring the grads in to see him so soon?”

Henry waved away his comment. “So? What did you find?”

“It’s his _dye._ The formula he was working on for his research. Yes, he needs to make some substantial adjustments, but it's barely being tested. Microscopic analysis showed evidence of the substance in Tom's eye on the cotton fibers. See, for the dye to work according to plan, it would need to congeal around malignant melanoma cells. Only in the quantity Tom took in both eyes, it’s hardened into a gel-like shell, blocking his sight. But it’s pliant. Given enough time, the dye could break apart and he might be able to see again.”

“And if it doesn’t break apart?”

“It’s only been a few days. We can monitor this. Try different salines to help dissolution occur.”

“It seems like a gamble on a substance that hasn’t even been studied before.”

“I’ll do it.”

Henry put down his pen.

Chris nodded. “You’ve told me yourself I need to stop overextending myself, stop working seventy plus hours. If I continue with my rounds but cut back on a few shifts, I can spend more time on this patient. Let the kids on residency take over a bit.” He felt his fatigue like a hot pressure behind his eyeballs, and he wondered what kind of pain Tom had endured for the past forty-eight hours.

Henry sighed and removed his glasses. “You do seem to be the only one he’s tolerated.”

Chris said nothing.

"What you say might make sense. It could certainly explain why he hasn't complained of eye dryness. He is blinking less frequently than normal, but if the dye has hardened into a cap of sorts, then it could have sealed moisture in. I'm wondering about his tear ducts, however. Ask him if he's felt any tear buildup."

Chris nodded, heart flipping excitedly.

Henry sat back and steepled his fingers. "Tell me, have you tried tapping his eyes?"

**

"Tom, do you think it would be okay if I tried tapping one of your eyes?"

Walking down the hall outside his room, Tom stumbled to a halt and Chris jumped forward to steady him. Clasping each other's forearms, they swayed for a moment before Tom found his balance again. His eyes, when he turned up at Chris, staring in the general direction of the wall behind him, were wide with alarm.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a weird question, I know. And weirdly phrased." He grimaced. "But I think you have a thick layer of dye over your eyes and if I could only feel it, it would really help me understand its properties."

Tom swallowed and started walking again, a slow, cautious gait, his slippered feet sliding along the floor. Chris tried to imagine walking blind and was pretty sure he would assume he was about to fall into a giant chasm after every step. Tom’s hand was tight around the crook of his elbow, moist with sweat. He was nervous, but he was trying and Chris was proud of him for that. Tom was just happy to be wearing scrub pants under his gown, feeling not as exposed as before.

“I don’t suppose you’ll try to lift it away like a slimy shell off a beetle’s back.”

“That was grosser than I expected. But yes. Do you think it will work?”

“No.” Tom’s response was swift and quietly confident. Chris swung his head around, stunned.

“No?”

“It’s designed to stay put. The first trials featured the dye at its thickest. It will stick to the melanoma cells for easy identification. With each trial I was going to thin it a little more until it would be benign in the eye.”

“Will it damage your sight?”

“I hope not. The ingredients are potent. But if they’ve hardened into a casing, who knows what they’re doing to my eyes.”

He grew quiet, blinking slowly and a bit forcefully, as if reminding himself of the act.

“I just thought to ask.”

“Of course you can,” Tom said quietly, turning slowly so they could head back up the way they came.

Chris’s hand came up to rest over where Tom’s clung to his elbow. “Thank you for trusting me, Tom.”

Tom lifted his chin and smiled up at Chris, eyes open and reflecting star constellations.

“Hi, Dr. Hemsworth.”

A passing nurse greeted Chris on the fly, but Tom dropped his head and closed his eyes, heat flushing his face.

“Hey,” Chris said softly. “You okay?”

Tom took a steadying breath and nodded, glad he hadn’t heard any of the telltale whispers of his continued infamy on that floor of the hospital. _Star Eyes_. Lifting his chin, he smiled at Chris, whose heart stuttered, feeling as if he’d been given a gift. 

Tom had been allowed to wipe off the iodine from his face, leaving his skin clear and pale once more, a day’s growth of stubble on his jaw. Chris couldn’t tear his eyes away from Tom as he wiped at his face with a towel in the bathroom that afternoon, missing a spot where soapsuds had gathered along the fine blond hairs of his temple.

“Here,” Chris had said gruffly, taking the towel and wiping the remaining soap. Tom had gazed at the line of Chris’s jaw, and if Chris hadn’t known any better, those could really have been Tom’s natural eyes and he could have really been seeing Chris.

They reached Tom’s room and Tom hesitated at the doorway, hand braced on the jamb. Chris could tell he didn’t want to go in.

“Are you hungry?”

“What?”

“We could go down to the cafeteria. I’ll buy you lunch.”

Smiling at the chance to escape, Tom nodded. “Okay. You lead on.”

Chris held out his arm and draped Tom’s under his elbow. “Of course. Would you accompany me, sir?”

Tom laughed quietly and placed his hand on Chris’s bicep, overly formal for their joke. “Gladly. Thank you, sir.” He kept it there during their walk, sliding along the floor much closer to Chris than before. Certain steps left him unsteady, and when he felt himself begin to tip he would squeeze Chris’s arm and hold his breath, face scrunched as if bracing for a fall. But Chris snatched him close too, pausing in their walk to let Tom gain his bearings again.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, patting his hand. “I won’t let you fall, you mad scientist.”

This always made Tom smile, laugh even, very low and with a downward chin, only for Chris.

“So what’s there to eat,” he said when they shuffled into the cafeteria. There were people scattered throughout the seating area, with the grills and food bars located in a room off to the side.

“Lots of stuff. Burgers and sandwiches and chips and—.”

“I’d like something not too heavy, please.”

“Why, you eat like a bird?”

 _Maybe._ “Nooo.” But he smiled, because he liked when Chris leaned a bit closer to tease him like this. “I don’t want to have to depend on you for everything here.”

“You can buzz for help you know. The nurses are there to help you. And if I’m not available, other doctors will be.”

Tom shuddered. “God, I couldn’t imagine doing this with Dr. Firestone.”

“Livingston.”

“Whatever.”

“You know, you’re much nicer, especially to me, when you’re half-conscious from pain medication.”

“Oh?” Worry bit into Tom’s gut. He shuffled next to Chris until it was obvious they had fallen into a line for food. “What do I say to you?”

“Stuff. Mainly, you smile more.”

Tom frowned. “Hmm.”

“We’re next. What kind of soup do you want?”

In the end he got Tom a small bowl of tomato basil soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, and he got a salad with grilled chicken on the side for himself.

“This is going to be interesting,” Tom murmured, once seated and staring blindly down at his soup bowl, fingering the spoon with hesitant clinks against the rim of the bowl.

“Just go slow. I’m right here next to you. I’ll tell you if there’s food on your face.”

“God,” Tom muttered, but tore his grilled cheese into clumsy squares and ate that before his soup. Chris watched him chew, the muscles in his jaw flexing, eyes half-shuttered as he glared down at the tabletop. Smiling, Chris started on his salad, keeping an eye on Tom’s progress. He picked up his spoon again and held the bowl steady with his free hand. Intending to skim the spoon over the surface, as he assumed Tom would usually handle eating soup, the spoon instead dunked too deep into the bowl and splashed spots of red on Tom’s face.

He flinched from the quick burn and gasped, turning eyes widened in shock, mouth parting helplessly.

“It’s okay. Alright. No harm done,” Chris said, reaching for a napkin. “Hold still.”

Tom’s face was flaming red as Chris dabbed the spots of tomato soup on his chin and cheek, the tip of his nose, the blond of his brow.

“That was so embarrassing,” Tom said quietly. “I’m a chemist, for Christ’s sake”

“So? Stephen Hawking is the smartest physicist on the planet. Disability has nothing to do with mental capacity.”

Tom’s eyes, covered in stars, flashed in his direction, landing vaguely on Chris’s throat. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m a cad.”

“No, you’re not,” Chris said, laughing. He took Tom’s wrist and slipped the spoon back between his fingers. “Easy now, just like this.” Holding Tom’s wrist he guided the spoon down to the soup and let it dip just enough to fill the tiny bowl of plastic. Tom leaned forward, his lips parting as he tried to aim the spoon into his mouth. Even with Chris’s help a drizzle of tomato basil slipped down his chin and they both huffed short laughter from their noses.

“Sorry,” Chris said, handing him a napkin.

“We’re hopeless, then, you and I.”

“Ah. As long as I’m hopeless with someone, then I don’t mind.”

Tom blinked fast and then smiled down at his lap.

“Oh, so he gets shy, does he?” Chris said, stabbing at his salad.

Huffing, Tom felt along the table until he found his bowl of soup, wrapping both hands around the edge of it and bringing it carefully to his lips. He drank it down slowly, Chris staring as his Adam’s apple bobbed with each gulp. When he’d swallowed it down, he set the bowl back on the table, wiped his mouth demurely and then smiled at Chris, blinking innocently at the wall.

“Well,” Chris said, clearing his throat. “That was—.”  _Seductive._ “—Creative.”

“Not really. But it’s always good to improvise as best you can.”

Chris said nothing, only clasped Tom’s shoulder in a show of good nature, and then returned to his salad.

Tom waited at the table while Chris deposited of their trash. He rubbed at his eyes, making the skin puffy and red, until Chris finally sat next to him again and took his wrists gently.

“Don’t. You’ll aggravate them.”

“They aggravate _me._ ”

“Ice will help. Let’s get you back upstairs and then I’ll try tapping one before giving you something for the pain.

“That sounds so funny. I can’t help it.”

“Come on, you twelve-year-old.”

“A mad scientist twelve-year-old. I do aim high.”

Chris led him out of the cafeteria and into the hallway, heading toward the bank of elevators. Tom’s hand was tucked back in the crook of his elbow and they walked slowly, legs brushing.

“Thank you for lunch, Chris. That was very nice of you.”

“You’re welcome, Tom. I was afraid you were going to float away if I didn’t get something in you.”

“Stop. I’m not that skinny.”

“You are compared to me.”

Tom held his arms out, ready to feel. “Are you fat?”

Chris’s laughter boomed around the elevator interior. He hit one of the buttons and the door closed.

“Not fat.”

“Well. I want to know now.”

“You want to know?”

Tom sighed, and waited.

“Here.”

Chris took his wrist and brought it to his stomach, where Tom’s hand crumpled against a wall of concrete.

“Oh,” he murmured, star eyes blinking into the distant corner, flattening his hand and running it down the bumped ridges of Chris’s abdomen. He held it there, palm warm and a little shaky.

Tom blinked and then snatched his hand back, breath stuttering out silently.

“That was inappropriate,” Chris started, about to apologize.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I rather enjoyed it. Are you…like that everywhere?” He reached on pure instinct once more, hoping to feel the bulge of his arm muscles, but his hand landed on a hard pectoral. He squeezed anyway.

“Pretty much,” Chris said softly, a hint of laughter in his voice.

“I’m sorry. I thought that was your bicep.”

“No.” Chris took his wrist and shifted Tom’s hand to the left. “This is.”

Tom’s mouth fell open as his fingers stretched wide around the muscle, but even so it wasn’t enough to fully circle Chris’s arm. He was made of stone, or marble, coursing warm with life and light and even laughter.

“Oh,” was all he said, sliding his arm through Chris’s again and waited to arrive at their floor. If he squeezed the muscle once more, it was only because he couldn’t help himself. And Chris, blushing red to the root of his hair, stared down at his shoes, grinning.

Tom’s room was quiet when they made their way in, Tom shuffling cautiously beside Chris. He sat down gingerly on the bed, scooting back against the pillows as Chris washed his hands thoroughly in the sink.

“Will you wear gloves?” Tom called as Chris patted his hands dry.

“Of course.”

“Won’t that limit what you feel from my eye?”

“I want to feel how hard it is,” Chris said, to which Tom grinned down at the bed. Chris sighed, obviously grinning too. “Stop. I need the mad scientist, not the twelve-year-old.”

“I wasn’t aware they were mutually exclusive.”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” Chris muttered. He sat at the edge of Tom’s bed, right where Tom was beginning to feel was most natural for him to be. Up high next to him, hips touching. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, lie back.”

Much like the first few times Tom had been asked to lie prone while others stared and pulled at his face, he was hesitant at first but slowly relaxed under Chris’s hands, his silent, gentle scrutiny.

“You okay?”

Tom nodded, breathing out. “Yes.”

“I’ll focus on your right eye. You can close your left.” Tom did, and Chris continued. “Open your right eye as much as you can. I’m going to run the tip of my finger over the outer corner of the sclera. Tell me if you feel any unbearable discomfort or pain.”

“Okay,” Tom whispered, bunching the blanket in both hands.

“Here we go.”

Tom did his best to stare up at the ceiling, even if he saw nothing but darkness. He felt his bottom lashes tickle along Chris’s finger, and then there was a soft pressure on his eyeball.

“Just running the tip over the surface,” Chris murmured, his breath ghosting over Tom’s brow. Tom inhaled coffee and spearmint and felt his belly loosen, imagining Chris’s brow scrunched in study, hair falling over his eyes perhaps.

“What color hair do you have?” Tom asked quietly.

Chris pulled back an inch. “Blond.”

“Is it long?”

“Not really. Cut just above my ears.”He made a slightly disappointed, curious sound and Tom couldn’t help pulling away, blinking hard.

“What’s wrong?”

“The substance is hard, I can tell. Just like a shell or cap. But…” He sighed and sat back down.

“Just take your gloves off. Do it that way.”

“I can’t.”

“I don’t mind it. You washed your hands just now. Your gloves have kept them clean.” Still Chris hesitated. Tom shrugged. “Is anyone around? I won’t tell. You want to feel it, don’t you?”

Chris sighed out a laugh. “Your innuendos are really distracting. You massive flirt.”

Holding both hands up, Tom shook his head innocently. “I said nothing.”

Another sigh. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” Chris stood fast and yanked off his gloves, the rapid movements and sharp snap of rubber making Tom swallow around a bout of sudden, excited nerves. What would Chris feel like in his arms, he wondered? _If I could but only see him, I would know._

Tom let his head fall back without being told and Chris was careful not to touch anything at the risk of contaminating his hands.

“Again. Close your eye.”

The process was repeated, only this time it was the softer, warmer nudge of Chris’s naked finger on Tom’s eye. Tom breathed out through his nose, slowly and calmly, feeling none of the anxiety he would have felt it had been someone else hovering over him.

“It’s so smooth,” Chris breathed, while Tom strained not to blink over his finger. “Like glass. Jesus, Tom. Is it heavy? How do you feel with this on you?”

“It feels stifling. It irritates my eye. Like a contact I’ve left in for too long. Only much thicker.”

“Can you feel your eyes move around under it?”

“Oh god, now that you mention it—.”

“I’m sorry. Think of something else.”

“What color are your eyes?”

“Blue.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“August eleventh.”

“Are you almost done?”

Chris chuckled, withdrawing his finger. “Yes. You did beautifully.”

“It makes no sense,” Tom murmured as Chris rose to wash his hands. “Based on my equations, the dye should not have formed this thickly. I had it calibrated to be thick at first, yes, but it shouldn’t have hardened like this. Even surrounding small strains of melanoma, it would have been distinctly uncomfortable for the patient.”

“But you would have thinned it out to its minimum before human trials.”

Tom still looked unconvinced, frowning down at his lap. “In theory.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. This is unparalleled work you’re doing. A lot of it is uncharted. Doubting your own smarts will only work retroactively for you.”

He dried his hands and returned to Tom’s side.

Tom settled more comfortably on his side, rubbing his eyes again with closed fists. He groaned at the irritation, his skin growing red.

“None of that now,” Chris said, coming over and pushing Tom’s shoulder down until he lay flat on the bed. “I have ice for you.” He pressed a bag of ice to Tom’s face, letting the bridge of his nose support the weight. Tom winced but held still.

“Amazing that you’re all not trying to force my hands into restraints.”

“Only if you want a good time,” Chris said, smiling.

“Oh my. He flirts back. I mean, that was you flirting right? And not some kind of doctor humor?”

Chris prodded the bag around a bit, and then let his hand drift down Tom’s face, resting big and warm on the side of his neck. “I’ll let you decide that.”

Tom reached up and pulled the bag of ice off his face, skin even redder.

“God,” he whispered, lashes falling low and shutting in the light of stars. “I feel defenseless against you.”

“Now you know how I’ve felt. Massive flirt.”

Tom laughed quietly and then shuddered when he felt those familiar feathers alight in his blood, calming his brain and slowing his heart. Chris must have slipped his pain medication into his I.V. It made him sleepy and loose, his mind blanketed with fog.

Nothing was said for a minute, during which Chris gently placed the bag of ice back on his face, tucking a curl behind his ear.

“You’ll stay?” Tom said softly.

“For a bit, yes.”

“It’s like I steal you from the others. I’m happier for it. A mad scientist thief. My resumé grows.”

Chris’s chuckle was lovely, like dark honey, and Tom hummed happily.

“What do I say to you? Hmm? Please? Christopher Bear.” Tom’s smile was lazy through the mist of his pain medication, eyes drooping as he circled Chris’s wrist with long, cool fingers.

“Christopher bear?” Chris grinned, but decided he liked the name very much, liked the cloud of light he felt fuse bright in his belly at the sound of it.

“Yes,” Tom murmured. “Christopher Bear.”

“You should sleep,” Chris said, heart flipping at Tom’s touch. Tom removed the bag of ice again, complaining softly of the cold.

“What do I say? Won’t you tell me?” His head nodded on the pillow but he roused himself.  starfire eyes snapping sleepily from point to point, trying to locate Chris. Chris sat at the edge of the bed and Tom scooted closer, humming happily that he’d found him. Both hands slid over Chris’s larger one, their palms sliding together, staying put, warmly, just right.

Chris swallowed and looked down at their twined fingers, heart pounding in his ears.

“You tell me that you don’t want me to go,” he whispered. “That you will open your eyes for no one but me. That you’re happy it’s me and not someone else.”

“Mm. Is true,” Tom murmured, pleased. “I miss you too. When you’re not here.”

“It’s the drugs talking.”

“Hardly.”

“I’ll always come round. I promise.”

“I wish I could see you,” Tom said, voice low. “Curse my eyes.”

“You might, just yet. Soon.”

Sleep finally overcame Tom this time and his head shifted heavily on the pillow, hands still wrapped around Chris’s. Chris sat there for a minute, intent on memorizing the dip between Tom’s brows, the red from the ice bag slowly receding from his milk-white skin, the thin lump of his body under the blankets curled toward Chris like an afterthought of intent.

“You’ll see again,” he whispered. “I’ll do my damnedest. And you’ll see again. You’ll see me.”

Based on the list of ingredients Tom had used to create the original dye, Chris already had in mind a few different salines he wanted to mix and begin eliminating what didn’t work and what harnessed the potential for a more creative result. Surgery was another option, but it carried great risks that could further impair Tom’s eyes. The extent of the current damage was still unknown.

Swiping his thumb across the soft under curve of Tom’s bottom lip, Chris stayed for a minute more.

“You’ll see again.”

**

As much as Tom disliked it, more people came to visit him that were interested in his eye anomaly. Chris was unable to be with him every moment of the day, and because Tom found most of Chris’s colleagues stuff and overbearing, his resistance to cooperate soon developed him a reputation for being rather difficult.

“Difficult,” he scoffed to his colleague Genevieve, who was finally able to see him since he’d been admitted. She smiled kindly, finding it endearing that Tom didn’t know the vibe he put out.

“We’ve suspended your trials. Until you’re able to resume them on your own.”

He nodded, playing with a string from the blanket covering his legs. “Shame. I’ll get right to it as soon as I can.”

“Mitchell will be by tomorrow, probably.”

“Is he upset?” Tom’s sudden worry made him think of loss of funding and canceled trials.

“Over your suffering, yes. But accidents happen. You’re one of the best chemists at the lab, Tom. We know you’re more than careful. You accident ratio is nearly nil.”

“I still don’t remember what happened. One moment I was walking, the next my eyes were on fire. Maybe reviewing the security footage will help.”

“I’m so sorry, Tom. I feel so helpless.”

Tom shook his head. “Not to worry. None of that will benefit anyone. How are the rest of trials coming?” He refrained from scratching his face while she went on about the research still being conducted back at the lab. Chris had wrapped his head with fresh gauze and now the cotton was tickling at the hidden skin of his temples, the weave too tight.

He was quick to complain about it when Chris showed up later that day.

“This bandage is too tight.”

“There’s the voice I missed so much.”

Tom ducked his head down. “Sorry. Hi.”

Chris sat beside him. “Hello yourself.” He took Tom’s jaw and turned his head gently to the side to unwrap the bandage. Tom stopped himself from reaching for Chris’s shirt, less brave during daylight hours, or when not riding in an elevator together. Or stuck in the delirium of his pain medication.

He cleared his throat and immediately rubbed his face as soon as the bandage was off.

“Easy,” Chris said, smiling.

“I don’t think you realize the impossible itching that starts up on my face.”    

“Whiny baby,” Chris said softly, but Tom’s initial bristling was assuaged by the feel of long fingers on his wrist.

He relaxed back against the pillow, his face feeling on fire from the itching and the scratching.

“It’s been a rather long day,” he admitted, stopping himself from saying _without you_ at the last second.

“Yeah. Same here. I’m finishing up with some outpatient files, because my boss thinks I should cut back on some of the work I’ve been doing.” He chuckled quietly while Tom’s heart stuttered in muted alarm. “I’m here like sixty plus hours a week. It’s starting to wear on me.”

“You’ll be dropping…all your patients?” Tom tried to keep his gaze fixed noncommittally at a far wall, wherever that was.

The fingers around his wrist squeezed him.

“No. Not all.”

Irate that Chris was going to make him say it, Tom asked, “And me?”

“See. That’s where the rest of my story would have explained about you before your nervous little questions.”

Heat flooded his cheeks and Tom turned away.

“Don’t turn from me,” Chris said softly. “I waited all day to see them.”

He turned back and flipped his eyes up at towards Chris’s voice. The other exhaled softly.

“There they are.”        

“Is that the only reason you visit me? To see these blasphemous stars?”

“Partly. Yes.”  

Tom’s brow rose. “And the other?”

A finger tapped his chin quickly. “To see this haughty face of yours.”

He huffed. “It’s _not_ —.”

“It is. Regal and haughty. Don’t argue with me. I stare at it whenever I can.”

Tom’s mouth pursed and Chris laughed, a vibration that rolled up his chest, deep, honeyed. Dropping his eyes, Tom blinked slowly. “You like my face?”

Chris shifted, the blanket rumpling. “I do. Yeah.”

Quietly, “I wish I could see yours.”

“You’d run for the hills.”          

“I highly doubt that.”

“Why.”

“It’s something in your voice.”

“You like my voice?”  

“Very much.”   

“Hmm.”

“Hmm? I tell you I like your voice and you make a silly sound like ‘hmm’?”

A finger curved around the soft shell of his ear. Tom gasped quietly.

“What would you like me to say?” Chris said, voice low, and chills sprouted along the nape of Tom’s neck. He swallowed, more loudly than he expected, and blinked up, giving Chris an eyeful of stars.

"I would have you say that…I can touch your face.”

A beat of silence. “You want to touch my face?”

“It’s like that stupid story I heard once. That just for the sake of touching Bruce Willis, a fan of his pretended to be blind. She stood on tiptoe and ran her tiny liar’s hands all over his face and got what hundreds of other girls wanted.”

“So all this was just a ruse. Just to get put in here and touch me.”         

“I would never confess to such a thing as that. What kind of a liar would I be?”

“Was she caught?” Chris’s voice rounded at the corners, a smile.

“Oh, absolutely.”

They laughed together, their soft chuckles bouncing in the small space between them and somehow, without his having noticed, their hands lay joined by his hip, fingers laced.

“It’s stupid, I know, but—.”

Chris’s pager beeped, the sound rattling rudely into the quiet, intimate bubble they’d created.

 _I miss you_ , Tom had meant to say, but kept his mouth shut.

Chris angled away to unclip it from his trousers with his free hand.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, voice distracted as if he were reading something.

“Oh?” Tom managed, pulling his hand free of Chris’s grip.

“Yeah. I had this whole hour blocked off just for you.” Tom blinked at that. “But emergency in the Burn Unit.”         

"You’ll owe me that hour,” Tom said, feeling the bed rise as Chris stood.

But then there was a soft, quick kiss planted on his cheek and he inhaled fast, hand rising to feel for himself.

“I promise,” Chris said, voice closer than before. “You can touch me later.”

Staring blankly, Tom’s mouth parted as he heard Chris’s footsteps recede to the far wall and out the door. The room echoed with a hollowness that was more noticeable without Chris there, the beeping machines louder somehow. Even so, Tom held his hand to his cheek for a moment longer, remembering the quick peck from Chris, and smiled down at his lap.

_Full lips._

_**_

It took some gathering of courage, but Tom finally managed to pick up the phone receiver that would summon his nurse. The speaker crackled to life in his ear.

“Well hello, Tom!” Her voice was laden with over-cheer. “Whatever can I help you with today?” Maybe she didn’t mean to sound so overbearingly patronizing, but Tom’s irritation flared. He rolled his eyes, or tried to.

“I’ll need to bathe.”

“I actually can come in and help you with that—.”

“No,” he said, rather sharply. He sighed and tried again, softer. “No. Thank you. I’ll just wait for—.”

“Dr. Hemsworth is not responsible for duties like that.”

His face boiled. “I wasn’t about to ask for Ch—for Dr. Hemsworth! Just –never mind.” He hung up the receiver. Down the hall, he heard teasing laughter at the nurses’station. Crossing his arms, he lay back on the bed, feeling like maybe somewhere outside the sky was starting to blend gloomily into night, and he would suffer yet another day in the dark, the itch beginning to madden.

**

The emergency in the Burn Unit took longer than Chris thought, the sky dark as pitch outside the half-slanted blinds of the window once he was done. Tom had been due for pain medication over an hour ago. Chris hoped he hadn’t given his head nurse too much trouble, chuckling as he scrubbed his hands in the doctor’s lounge. He thought again of the way Tom had smiled down at his lap after Chris kissed his cheek, his long thin hand cupping his face. The image had crept into Chris’s mind several times over the last few hours, spurring him on to finish his tasks and return to Tom’s side.

Clocking out, he returned to his office and shrugged into some loose sweatpants and a T-shirt, happy to be rid of his work scrubs for the night. Flicking off the light, he locked his door and took the stairwell to the fourth floor. A glimpse into Tom’s room showed his figure curled crookedly away from the door, the soft red light on behind the bed.

“Why’s my patient restrained?” he whispered to Eva, who was passing by laden with file folders.

She paused. “Oh, he was terribly upset earlier. Said his eyes were itching horribly. Started scratching at his face. We gave him antihistamine and strapped his wrists to the bed. He fell asleep a short while ago from the pain medication.”

Chris frowned, not pleased that Tom had been in distress, his hands restrained just as he so very much disliked.

“Thank you, Eva. I’ll stick around for a little bit, but I’m off the clock.”         

She nodded. “Of course, Doctor.”

He slipped into Tom’s room while she disappeared around the corner. The closer he got the more he could see the red scratch marks on Tom’s otherwise pale face, his chin and jaw beginning to dot with thin stubble. The lines gouged into the top of his sharp cheekbones and around to his temples where they faded into a harmless pink by his hairline. Setting his bag down on the floor, Chris studied the readings on the machines by the bedside when Tom suddenly shifted sharply on the bed, a small noise in the back of his throat.

Chris sat quickly, peering down in concern.

Tom mumbled something and then lurched once more, brows scrunched. Yanking at his arms, Tom’s wrists snapped tight in the soft restraints, and he whined, tossing his head.

“No,” he moaned quietly, still asleep. “It burns. Someone…someone help. Christopher…Bear. They’re so heavy. So heavy…please.” Holding him by the shoulders, Chris glanced at his temperature readings and saw there was no fever. He had to be dreaming.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Tom. Hey, it’s alright. You’re okay.”

Mumbling again, Tom’s body started writhing on the bed, a little more forcefully than before. And then his eyes burst open, stars twinkling in the red light. He tugged on his restraints.

“Get these off. Off. Please. Oh, God. Who’s there? Who’s touching me?”

“Tom, it’s me. It’s Chris. You’re okay. You were dreaming.”

Tom swallowed, eyes wide on the ceiling, panting heavily. “Chris. Please. Let me loose.” His gaze flicked to every corner of the room, seeing nothing and panicking.

Hurrying, Chris unlocked the restraints and Tom’s wrists slipped free, his arms rising toward Chris. Expecting a punch, Chris braced himself but felt the wind knocked out of him from the force of Tom’s hug. Fallen against him, Tom gasped quietly into his neck, his heart pounding through his thin gown. Chris’s arms tightened around him immediately.

“Okay. Shh. Don’t worry. It’s okay.”

“Oh, it’s terrible. Waking to this dark. Blinking and there being nothing. It’s terrible, Chris.”

“You dreamed it too?”

“Partly. But it was the burn of the accident again. The splash of it in my eye. And my damn hands—.”

Chris rubbed his back, heart hitching at how his spine jumped with tiny breaths. “I know. I’m sorry they did that. But your face. It’s all scratched up—.”

"Yes, well. The itching’s awful, too.”

They sat scrunched together on the bed, Tom’s breaths slowly calming, his pulse evening out. He pulled back, keeping his hands on Chris’s shoulders.

“Sorry about that. I—Well, I was startled, is all.”

“You had a nightmare.”

Tom’s lashes fluttered down and he sagged back against the pillow. “Like a child.”

“It’s okay to feel fear, Tom. To feel anxiety.” Tom cut his eyes over to him, not lining up exactly and staring over his shoulder at the window. Even so, it sent a thrill through Chris. “It’s okay to feel.”

“Feel?”

“Yes. Because maybe it’s an easy thing to throw up walls and let cold indifference shield you.” Tom stiffened but Chris took his hand in both of his. “But I think there is a well of warmth in you that you may not realize you have. And maybe you liken feelings to weakness, preferring the rigid methodology of science and mathematical rules to guide you, but I also think it’s safe to say that we all need moments of quiet, where we can feel, and allow to be felt.”

Tom’s nostrils flared slightly, his thin mouth set in a straight line as he contemplated Chris’s words. And because Chris couldn’t help himself, he brushed his thumb under Tom’s bottom lip just for the pleasurable sake of seeing his pretty mouth part.

Tom inhaled quietly. “You are a damned poet.”

Chris smiled. “No. I just really like you. Stubborn, frosty mad scientist that you are.”

Tom turned away, the bones of his long neck thrown in velvet shadow. “You think me cold.”

“I think you strong. And currently nervous. You’re not used to feeling vulnerable. This dream is a possible way your mind is wanting to display what you try so hard to hide during the day.”

“So now you’re a psychiatrist, too.” But his lip was beginning to tremble and his fingers tightened around Chris’s hand.

Chris sniffed out a small laugh. “No. Definitely not.”

“I can’t cry.”

“You can. It’s okay to.”

“No. I mean, I literally can’t. My fucking eyes are broken.” His smile was watery and hesitant, but there, and Chris pounced at the chance to bring it further out of him.

“So he curses. That’s surprising.”

“Yes, well. Only when I feel something very strongly.”

“Which isn’t often, I presume.”

Tom pinched his wrist. “Shut up,” he laughed.

Chris cupped the side of his head and Tom let him, eyes falling closed as he relaxed under his touch. His hair was damp with sweat. “You’re so lovely,” he said softly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Mm. Good. But actually, you can let one thing happen to me.”

“What’s that?”

“I need a shower. And that nurse offered but I simply couldn’t accept.”

Chris laughed. “Shy?”

“No. Just particular.”

“Come on, then. I’ll help you.”

**

Tom stood in the bathroom, feeling as if he was perched on a precipice and a step in any direction would send him spiraling into an abyss. He’d taken off his flimsy gown, his skin pebbling with chills, only his feet sheathed with plastic booties to protect his skin from whatever might still be lingering on the tile used by hundreds of people.

The water was running just a foot away, its spray pricking faintly, tiny stabs, harmless. Chris was back in the main room, having retreated after turning on the water for him and guiding his hand to the wall, whispering to be careful on the floor, not to slip.

“I’ll come running in, though, if you need me.”

“Thank you,” Tom had whispered, heart pounding at being left alone with a chasm surrounding him.

He knew that there was a freshly opened bar of soap and a small bottle of shampoo on the small shelf just within; he just needed to step through. Swallowing thickly, he slid his hand along the wall, his sweat making his skin stick and bump along. Very careful, he shifted his foot forward, the booties sounding like plastic on the cold, ordinary tile. Nothing to be afraid of.

Chris’s name was a lifeline ready to tumble from behind his lips, but he refused to call for him until he absolutely needed to.

But as if bidden, Chris’s voice echoed from the other side of the door, indistinct.

"Yes?” Tom called, turning his head. “What!”

The door creaked open, and Tom froze.

“I’m not peeking! I promise! I just asked if you were okay.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m trying. It feels a mile away.”

“Do you need help?”

“But—you’ll see.”

“A naked body? Whatever will I do? I’ve never run into this predicament before as a doctor.”

Trying not to sulk, Tom sighed. “I’m nearly there. I think I can manage.”

“Darn. Okay. I’ll be just here.”

Smiling, Tom turned back to the shower, a new resolve strengthening his steps. Shuffling with one hand on the wall, he reached with his other arm until he finally felt solid drops of water on his open palm. Relief flooded his system and he breathed out a short little laugh. More confident now, he felt along the wall until he touched the smooth metal of a support bar. His fingers gripped it tight. Anchored, he stepped into the stall and pulled the curtain closed behind him. Warm water splattered his chest and he reached up to it like a man supplicating heaven itself.

It had been days since he felt clean, his restless, sweaty tussling on the bed in his half-sleep and fever dreams doing nothing to make him any more comfortable. But now the water revived him, refreshing and pure. He scrubbed at his scalp with the shampoo, suds creeping down his neck. He kept his eyes closed, unsure if the soap and shampoo would cause further harm. Also, it was only instinct. Rinsing himself once more, Tom stood under the spray for a moment longer, the force of the water landing on the bridge of his nose, ricocheting everywhere. It was blessed relief on his itching skin, still feeling tender with his fresh scratch wounds.

Finally he shut the water off and called for Chris. The door opened and Chris pulled the curtain aside, wrapping a towel around Tom’s shoulders immediately.

“Thank you,” he stammered, the cold hospital air seeping into the bathroom still humid from his shower.

“Come on, I’m helping now.”

Standing in the middle of the bathroom, Tom waited patiently, huddled under his towel, beads of water sifting through the hair on his legs, dragged low by gravity.

“I know it’s cold,” Chris murmured, running another towel over Tom’s head, drying his curls and then squatting and running down both legs. Tom’s balance started to tip, his equilibrium compromised with no sight, and his hand shot out from under his towel. He grabbed Chris’s shoulder with a small cry, and Chris straightened fast. He took Tom’s arms and held him still.

"You’re not going to fall,” he said. “Not with me right here. Okay?”

Heart racing, Tom nodded, pulling the towel tight around him again. Chris pulled a new gown over Tom’s head and down his body. Tom dropped his towel and Chris fetched it to deposit in the laundering bin. Hand tucked in his elbow again, Tom padded along beside Chris until they reached the bed. He climbed in and pulled the blanket over him, trying to settle his chills.

“Are you hungry?”

“A little. But what time is it?”

“Just before midnight.”

“Never mind, then.”

“I’ll grab you something from the vending machines.”

Tom touched his forearm, felt the rustle of hair there, soft and thick. “Thank you.”

Chris returned with chips and beef jerky, some cookies and a little box of orange juice.

“What’s this? A treasure trove of goodies.” Tom sat up, smiling. Chris unwrapped the packages and together they ate a little bit of everything, Chris sitting cross-legged on Tom’s bed. Tom was better with finger foods than utensils, Chris saw, and teasingly told him so.

“Stop,” Tom said, smiling. He tossed him a chip but it sailed wide. “I missed, didn’t I?”

"Yes!”

“Well. Enough of that.”

They grew quiet, the wrappers crackling on the bed between them.

“You still haven’t let me touch your face.”

Around them he felt the stillness of the trauma ward, the soft breaths of all the machines on their floor, their intermittent beeping and the faraway wheeling of beds and supply carts. But he waited beside Chris, silent and trying not to cock his head in question. He would not fidget, not if he could help it.

“Go on, then,” Chris finally said. They were sitting side by side at the head of the bed, Tom’s pillow shared between the small of their backs. Tom straightened and shifted about, turning his body to face Chris.

“Are you nervous someone will see us?”

“I’m nervous this will lead to more amazing things on this rickety bed and then, yes, someone will see.”

Tom grinned. “You underestimate my enthusiasm, sir.”

 “Oh, _do I?_ ” But Chris chuckled, both clearly a little on edge about how their feelings fit into their current surroundings.

“Yes. Also, ‘no’comes much easier to me than ‘yes’.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Sitting cross-legged before him now, Tom leaned forward and raised his palms. With bated breath, he reined in his excitement, wanting to feel skin under his fingers.

And then he felt it, the first touch. The slant of a cheekbone, the rasp of stubble.

Tom smiled and incredibly, felt Chris’s skin warm as he blushed.

“Don’t shy from me,” mTom laughed.

The muscles of Chris’s face bunched as he smiled. “I’m not. You’re just making me blush. You’re so rapt.”

“I am,” Tom whispered, feeling some more. He fanned his fingers and angled them over Chris’s temples and to his hair. It was cut short, but still long enough that the strands slipped through his fingers like silk. Angling his thumbs down, he felt day-old stubble poke at him, and he laughed quietly again. Chris’s nose was straight and fine, nostrils flaring as the pads of his thumbs passed over. Full lips parted for his wandering fingers, a gust of warm breath, corners tugging up in a smile. Long lashes blinked low, and higher up the thick spread of eyebrows felt soft and shaped nicely. His forehead was smooth and not very high, Tom’s fingers meeting what felt like the beginning of a widow’s peak.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Mm,” Tom said, letting his hands slide low to Chris’s strong neck. “Perfect.”

“I’m tickled now.”

“Oh.” Tom ran his hands in small circles from his throat up to his forehead, and Chris waited patiently, shaking with laughter. “Better?”

"Yes, thank you.”

“So what’s the verdict?”

Tom hummed noncommittally and sat back against the pillow, their sides pressed together. “You’ll do.”

Chris’s chuckle was low and warm, his hand sliding over Tom’s, their fingers twining. “Yeah. Christopher Bear thinks that you’ll do too.”

Tom’s face flamed red, eyes widening in alarm. “W-what?”

Chris laughed and reached for him, dragging him in for a hug. “Stop. It’s so cute. And I quite like it.”

“Oh, my god,” Tom moaned, muffled against his chest, but clung to him all the more. Laughing still, Chris rubbed his back and left quick kisses on his scalp.

**

It was best if he worked away from Tom. He was nearly finished with creating several saline solutions to test on Tom’s eyes, and despite the terrible itching and lingering pain, Tom was a supremely flirty distraction that Chris would have had no problem pampering with attention and affection if he wasn’t so hell bent on getting Tom his sight back. He really believed that the texture and property of the toxic shell over his eyes wasn’t permanent. It was a gut feeling he had learned to trust over the years as a trained physician. It hadn’t let him down before.

After wrangling a promise out of Tom to behave and sit tight until Chris was through with mixing the solutions, Chris visited with Eva. Trying not to think how adorable Tom looked grudgingly making his promise to Chris, rolling his star-eyes and crossing his arms, he pulled Eva aside.

“No more restraints, okay?”

“But what if he tries gouging his eyes out again?”

“Then page me. I’ll be just down the hall.”

With Tom’s permission, Chris had emailed Genevieve, his coworker at the laboratory where he worked. His intermediary, Genevieve collected Tom’s research notes and provided a list of ingredients and possible solutions she’d mapped out on her own. With her help, Chris was certain he could root his way to the bottom of Tom’s problem. But first, he needed to recreate Tom’s star-eyes. Because he wasn’t a professional chemist, he invited Genevieve over to the makeshift laboratory he’d set up in his office. Desk cleared, shades drawn and fluorescent lights flipped on, Chris brought out his materials. Using a pair of eyeballs from a cadaver, brown-irised with faint red veins crisscrossing the sclera, Chris set one carefully on a plastic, flat-based stand in the middle of a stainless steel tray. With Genevieve at his side, he slowly poured a sample of the liquid Tom had originally been working with when he had his accident over the eye, the liquid dribbling over the iris and pupil, obscuring everything.

Wearing goggles and medical gloves, they stared wide-eyed at the instantaneous reaction. It was nothing dramatic, no hissing or tendrils of smoke, but the solution seemed almost alive in how quickly it adhered to the eyeball, the spread of it, the diamond winks of stars.

“He didn’t stand a chance,” Chris murmured, dismayed at the potent response of the dye. He remembered the ambulance paramedic saying that Tom had fought them in the ambulance, that they were only barely able to rinse out his eyes. Chris had been able to flush out the liquid again here at the hospital, and it might be why Tom’s eyelids were functioning properly, blinking without a problem. Otherwise they might have stayed glued shut. But the substance on the cadaver eyeball started to solidify almost immediately without the attempts to flush with water, eventually forming into a tougher, harder version of the cap currently sealed over Tom’s eyes.

He and Genevieve glanced at each other, and then back at the experiment.

Genevieve squatted and searched in her travel bag. “I took the liberty of mixing a new dye solution based on Tom’s notes. Do you have another eyeball?”

Chris jumped into movement. He removed the first eyeball and put it into a small vial of saline to examine later. Once the remaining eyeball was in place, Genevieve poured her solution onto it and they waited, breath held. The reaction was not as severe, the liquid hardening into more of a gel-like substance than the unforgiving slab of marble from the first eyeball.

“And that’s Tom’s formula based on his notes?”

Genevieve nodded. “I mixed it myself just before coming here. And Tom is meticulous about his work. Why would his equations, and the resulting solution he encountered at the lab, be so vastly different from what he designed himself? From what we can plainly see this one’s not the same as what I prepared just this afternoon. Tom’s is…much smoother. Cleaner. Just like all of his work. The other one is cruder and unforgiving.” She shuddered, possibly imagining have to suffer eyefuls of the stuff.

Chris sat behind his desk and pulled his goggles off, sighing up at the ceiling.

“I hate to even suggest this, but I’m wondering if…Have you been able to review security footage back at your labs?”

Genevieve rummaged through her bag again and produced a compact disc sheathed in plastic. “I’m sort of…dating…the head security guard. I sneak some private moments with him in the early mornings. Storage room. Doesn’t matter. He gave me the footage from that morning. I thought we could take a look together.”

Chris smiled, rocking back in his chair. “Didn’t expect such clandestine activities from you, Dr. Fuentes.”

She blushed prettily. “Please. Dr. Hemsworth. I love a good squeeze in a cramped space as much as the next woman.”

Grinning, Chris rose from his seat to fetch his laptop.

Half an hour later, they turned from the screen and stared at each other, stunned at what they had just seen.

“I can’t believe it,” Genevieve breathed, sitting at the edge of Chris’s desk. Her slim fingers pressed against her mouth, fingers clear of polish and trimmed neatly. Her lips, however, were plump with a natural flush, turned down at the edges in disapproval.

Chris was just as upset, trying to wrap his mind around the kind of base treachery he’d just witnessed. He pointed at the computer, uselessly. “He just—.”

But a sudden loud screeching silenced his words, driving him and Genevieve to their feet. Hands at her ears, she turned about as a bright light began flashing from a small device in the corner of his office.

They glanced at each other.

“Fire alarm!”

He waved her to the door and they spilled out into a hallway bustling with bodies.

“Emergency exit is down those stairs. Follow the others!”

“Where are you going!”

But he had already spun on his feet, his heart frantic, thoughts on only one person.

**

Humming a low song, Tom kept his neck craned up at the ceiling, trying desperately, with the sheer power of his mind, to fight the itch under the bandage on his face. Chris had insisted on wrapping his head in sterile gauze again, but only because he’d caught Tom nudging his own eyeball with the tip of his finger.

“You’ll give yourself an infection—.”

“But it feels so strange, Chris. I just want to—.”

“ _No_.”

Now, here he sat, eyes rolling under their lids, the hard shell of the coagulated dye acting like a medieval torture device, meant to keep his heart rate elevated with anxiety, surely meant to kill him with stress alone.

He was just ready to nod off when the shriek of a fire alarm pierced the general buzzing calm of the trauma ward. He sat up, head turning left and right.

“What? Hello?”

But the noise level just below the squawking alarm had risen dramatically, voices shouting to remain calm, to follow the exit signs, to take the staircase to the first floor—.

"I can’t,” he whispered, easing to the side of the bed and setting his feet on the cold floor. He wore only a thin shift with no shoes or socks. How was he supposed to make it?

“Chris?” Tom stood on shaky legs, one hand gripping the pillow on the bed, his anchor in that room of chasms and tilting angles. “Chris. Where—oh god.” Ridiculously, he yanked off the bandage from his face, as if its absence would suddenly restore his sight. But it didn’t; it only made the raucous din all the louder, all the more confusing and alarming. Where was the door? The shouts seemed louder to his left. Was there really a fire? Or was it some snot-nosed kid acting like a clown?

Without thinking, he took a step to his left and suddenly the floor rushed up at him, his anchor lost, wobbling dangerously on a precipice. Arms out, he gasped as he landed on all fours, hands slipping on the slippery tile. He searched for anything solid and cemented to the floor, but found nothing. Panic rising, he shuffled back on his palms, sliding along the floor, feet kicking as he crawled away from the shouts. The alarm continued its incessant screaming, splitting his ears and making him cringe. His shoulder collided with something that tottered and toppled with a crash. Flinching, he changed directions and finally met with something solid and unyielding. A wooden door. The bathroom. Clawing at the handle, he fell in and kicked the door closed again. It was quieter in there, but still the alarm could be heard as it was meant to. Huddled against the sink, he sat with his knees to his chest, hauling in deep breaths, hands shaking as he gripped the porcelain bowl.

His very skin crawled at the thought of being jostled along in the hallway with all those bodies, all those people who would grab and pull at him. And helpless, he would be trapped and trampled in some concrete stairwell, blind and bleeding.

“Mr. Hiddleston?” he heard from the main room. Female. Older. Eva, the head nurse.

“’Doctor’,”he whispered, impossibly irate. The door handle jiggled and then her voice again.

“Mr. Hiddleston!”

“No,” he moaned quietly, shaking his head. That’s where she found him, bracing the door with the balls of his feet, eyes rolling in his fear, trying to block himself in.

“We have to evacuate! Come with me, I’ll lead you out.”

“I can’t. Please. No.” His legs buckled as she bullied her way through the door, her hands rigid on his wrists.

“Come with me. Come along.”

“No. I said no!”

“You’re being unreas—.”

“Don’t touch me!”

The door crashed open behind her and she gave a squeak. Blind, Tom stared wide into the open space, chest heaving. The small bathroom felt suddenly cramped with a lovely warmth, a bundle of energy he was beginning to recognize.

“It’s okay, Eva. I’ll take Dr. Hiddleston downstairs.”

Tom’s face collapsed in relief at Chris’s voice, and he whispered his name.

Eva sighed and let him go. “Oh, thank goodness. Yes, I’ll check on the other patients.”

As soon as Eva bustled out, Chris dropped to his knees and gathered Tom in his arms. Tom clung to him hard, burying his face in Chris’s neck, shuddering out a breath. Wrapped up tight, they swayed and gripped each other, cheeks pressed together. Panic still swelling at the deafening alarm, Tom slid his lips along Chris’s jaw and pulled back just enough to where he sensed their noses were but an inch apart. Swallowing thickly, he blinked and called for his sight, begged it to return, hoping to see the man before him. He could only imagine the sweet look in Chris’s eyes, staring back at him. He knew his eyes would be sweet. Chris was simply so. And as a moment of shared breath extended to two, Tom could swear he felt the space between them diminishing, his fingers curling in the sleeves of Chris’s shirt, come closer, yes. Chris would kiss him. He would. And so he waited, breath caught.

Just as the tips of their noses brushed, just as Tom’s heart hitched high in his throat, there was a muted shout from out in the hallway, and Chris jerked away. Tom blinked and dropped his hands, and felt in a rush where they were. Palms clammy against the tile floor, legs curled and cramped under him, the outrageous bleating of the fire alarm, he slowly came to his senses –all four of them –and leaned back a bit.

“Darling, this floor is gross.”

There was a brief, stunned silence and then Chris pressed his face to Tom’s throat, huffing out a short laugh and pressing there the kiss they were denied. Softened and full of flutter wings, Tom smiled and held still. Chris gave him a hard hug and then jumped to his feet.   

“Alright now, my silly scientist.” He took Tom’s hands and pulled him up. They stood for a moment beside the sink, Tom shuffling to gain his balance.

“Is there really a fire, Chris?” Tom kept close to him, skimming his palms up Chris’s shoulders and to his neck, cupping him there.

“I don’t know, but they’ll take a head count outside.”

He made to move away but Tom snatched at him. “Oh, god. Don’t leave me.”

A wide hand palmed the side of his face and he smiled faintly, surprised at the flood of safety he felt. Chris’s spearmint breath gusted gently on his face. “I’m going to be very sad when you get your sight back and won’t have to depend on me so much.”

"Please. We don’t even know if I’ll ever see again. I might have to cling to you like a baby monkey for the rest of our lives.”

“To be completely honest, that’s kind of a thing for me.”

“Monkeys?”

There was a sharp pinch on his buttock and Tom gasped, jumping forward. Chris hummed and kissed his temple.

“Clinging,” he said softly.

“Well,” Tom said, face flaming. “You’ll find I’m actually a very needy person.”

“You? No.”

Tom smiled, his heart flipping. “Shut it.” Chris took his hand and started for the door. Tom followed him through the room, hesitation tightening his grip and dragging his heels.

“There are no chasms. Stop it.”

“In my head there are.”

Chris rummaged in a drawer and then had Tom lift his bare feet up one at a time. Hands over his ears, Tom obeyed, toes wiggling in what felt like new socks.

"Let’s go!” Chris took Tom by the shoulders and ushered him into the hallway. He stumbled alongside Chris, body jolting at every sound and step. Equilibrium thrown, he hugged Chris around the waist and focused entirely on not tripping. Several minutes had passed since the fire alarm first went off, but already the floor felt deserted, a wide open space bereft of life and movement. He clung to Chris, trusting him to lead him safely out of the hospital. Down a stretch of hall and to a side stairwell, they took each step one at a time, Tom’s feet lurching along the sharp edges, clumsy and unsure. Arms wrapped around Chris’s torso, he whispered and cursed, breaking out in a sweat. Four flights later they pushed out into the cold day. Tom immediately closed his eyes, aware of the great rise in random conversations around them, hospital staff and patients waiting in clumps in the parking lot while the fire fighters checked the building. The cold seeped up into his feet through the thin cotton socks he wore, his gown swishing around his calves from the sharp winds buffeting the area.

“Shit, it’s freezing,” Chris said, keeping his arm around Tom and rubbing his shoulder for warmth.

“They can see. Can they see. Is anyone seeing? My eyes.” Tom mumbled down at the spotted concrete, keeping his lashes low.

“It’s okay, babe. No one’s looking.”

He would have to take Chris’s word for it, already imagining hundreds of people gawking at them, whispering. Collecting his breath, he shifted from foot to foot, hands beginning to shake from the cold. Chin down, he sharpened his ears to the sounds around them: curious chatter, wondering why the alarm went off, someone shouting names off a list, responses at a distance. There were the sirens from the fire trucks, laughter toward the edge of everything, and the song of birds above them.

“Tom!”

He spun toward the voice, recognizing it. “Genevieve?”

"Hi, guys!” She came up to them, breathless, and Tom could already imagine her long strawberry hair swaying under the curve of her breasts, the shy hunch of her shoulders, and felt a strange kinship with her. She had been the first one to reach him back at the lab when he’d had his accident; it had been her voice that told him to stay calm, that everything would be okay. She’d helped drag him to the shower stall in the corner of the room, had held his body as someone –maybe Alejandro–had directed the water over his face to flush his eyes. He hadn’t properly thanked her, he realized.

“You found your way out okay,” Chris said.

“Oh, sure!” she laughed genially. “After I was, well, abandoned.” She stressed the last word with a hint of playfulness, and Tom had the suspicion that Chris must have been working in his office with her just before the fire alarm had gone off, that he had left her to find Tom, that Tom had been his main concern.

Something warm fluttered in his heart and he smiled, nudging Chris’s shoulder with his forehead, an unconscious gesture that had him beet red the next instant, mumbling as he turned away.

"So,” Genevieve said, the smile so big in her voice Tom had to fight the urge to run away.

“Tom,”Chris said, coming to his rescue. “You’re not going to believe this, but Genevieve and I found something on the security footage she brought to my office.”

Tom perked up, brows knit. “What is it? Were you able to see what happened?”

“Yeah,” Genevieve said. “Something definitely happened.”

One of the firefighters came out the side door and gave the all clear to return inside the building.

“I’ll catch you guys later. Chris, keep it safe?”

“Keep it secret,” Chris said, smiling. Genevieve giggled and then left. When Tom glanced up in question, Chris made a mock noise of disbelief.

“Tell me you’ve seen _Lord of the Rings_?”

“Oh. Maybe. Vaguely? In college.”

“Babe, no. We’re marathoning it as soon as we can.”

"I literally can’t see, Chris.”

“Hush. You leave that to me.”

Tom shuffled from foot to foot. “My feet are frozen, darling”

“All of you is frozen,” Chris murmured, touching Tom’s wrist gently, discreetly, between their bodies. “Want to wait until most everyone’s gone in?”

“Yes. We can take our time up the stairs. I would much rather walk upstairs than tumble down like we did earlier.”

“Oh, I’ll show you tumbling.”

Tom blinked slowly, letting Chris get an eyeful of stars and when Chris inhaled quietly, Tom smiled.

“I cannot wait to be out of this damn hospital, so that we can tumble.”

“Well joke’s on you, because we’re on our way back in.”

“Oh we have a comedian, everyone. Take a look. He’s here ‘til Thursday.”

Chris wrapped a big hand around the back of his neck and gave a warm squeeze, guiding him into the building. And Tom, who with any other person in any other time would have taken the gesture as a threat to his personal space, blushed and wrapped his arm around Chris’s waist, letting the warmth of the inner stairwell swallow them whole as the door slammed shut behind them.

**

The click of a camera multiplied by a dozen had Tom’s nerves frayed at the edges by the end of the impromptu photo session. He held still, just as Chris had asked of him, as researchers captured their images of Tom’s star-eyes, never once blinking, staring straight into a void he knew held a group of people but to him was only a thick darkness.

“You’ve caused quite a stir with your eyes, Tom,” Dr. Livingston said somewhere to his left. Chris, Tom knew, was to his right and so he kept his chin tilted in that direction, his patience beginning to wear thin.

“Yes,” Chris jumped in. “A coworker of Tom’s has been helping me gather all the necessary information from his original research, in the hopes of trying to formulate a solution that might restore his sight.”

"Working backwards, then.”

“Something like that.”

The room emptied out a few minutes later, and Tom eased out a slow sigh, lifting his hand to touch Chris’s wrist.

“I’m so happy they’re gone. I can barely keep my head up.”    

“How’s the pain?”

“Tolerable. More of a discomfort. I don’t want much more of that medication.”

“Sleep, then. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Will you tell me now? What happened?”       

He felt Chris hesitate, the air stilling. After the fire alarm the day before, Chris had stalled enough for Tom to succumb to exhaustion and promptly avoided discussing it again. He said Genevieve was already on top of it, that she was ‘taking care of’the situation. What situation, Tom had no idea, but he assumed it was something with foul play because anything less wouldn’t be so delicate a topic. When Chris came in this morning to ask if Tom would permit the researchers to take picture of his eyes, Tom agreed only on the condition that Chris would tell him the truth just after.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Chris took his hand. All noise buzzed to a low, steady hum, one Tom was beginning to recognize was his way of focusing on distance and touch rather than every single noise in his vicinity. Drowning, he liked to think of it.

“Genevieve came back for the disc, said she was going to deliver it to Mitchell, your lab director.”

Breathing evenly, fighting the coil of anger winding up in his chest, Tom tried again. “But what happened, Chris?”

Chris shifted closer, his free hand sliding to Tom’s other hip and leaning there. Tom knew he was hovering just before him, studying Tom’s face perhaps, his star-eyes. And Tom wished he could do the same, because how terrible was it to wait for news –any news –without the luxury of studying a person’s face for clues?

He waited, just about to open his mouth to mutter impatiently, when Christ finally spoke.

“It was still early in the morning. You were the only one in the lab after your coworker left. I forget the name Genevieve told—.”

“Ray,” Tom said fast, and Chris nodded.

“Ray. Yeah. You stooped to pick something up. The video was too grainy.”

“It was a vial. I blamed Ray. Thought that in his haste to get to his wife, he’d knocked it over and left it there.”

“Maybe,” Chris conceded, not entirely sure. “It doesn’t matter. Your back was to the door and you didn’t notice it opening again. The kid grabbed the first thing in sight –one of the containers with your dye –and flung it in your face as you turned toward him.”

Not entirely following, Tom knit his brows. “Kid? What kid?”

“Your intern. Stephen.”

Frozen, Tom felt the air in his lungs congeal and break apart to ash. He tried desperately to remember more of that morning, more of what happened after he heard the door open behind him –but he couldn’t. His mind working to protect him, perhaps, yet still annoying.

Lips parting in a weak sneer, he stared at where he believed Chris’s eyes to be.

“Ste–Stephen? My Ste— _my_ intern?” He’d selected Stephen himself from a pool of applicants. It made no sense.

“He looked upset in the video. Face all scrunched up, and maybe puffy. Like he’d been crying.”

And what about Tom’s tears? Even now the pressure was building up behind his cheekbones, his temples throbbing, lashes trembling but still dry. It became painful, this pressure, and he gasped around it, Chris’s words echoing in the space between them.

“No,” he said, adamant, his voice rushing back to his ears as if from a hollow distance. “Stephen is highly competent. There’s no way he would have done this. He’s always performed _competently_. Lacking emotion, as he should!” He heard his own voice rise but didn’t know how else to get his point across, especially without being able to see how Chris was reacting to his reason.

“Did you maybe, tell him that every once in a while?”

“Tell him what?”

“That he was doing a good job, that he was performing well—.”

“Oh.” Tom sat back, tugging his hand away from Chris. “Oh. So I don’t tell the boy he’s doing a _good job_ and he gets so enraged he takes away my _sight_? Is this an okay thing now?”

“All I’m saying is that people will do all kinds of crazy things when they feel they are undervalued. Unappreciated. And we don’t know what kind of personal stuff he’d been dealing with. Maybe—.”

"Nobody held my hand while I was in medical school, Chris,” Tom said, fighting the hitch in his voice, but Chris’s calm was only serving to further anger him. “Or yours, either, I imagine. I didn’t have to rely on other people’s opinions of me to know I was doing a damn fine job. I got through it and started my career of my own volition, not because someone told me I could!”

“We all process things differently.” His voice was so soft, his fingers tender as they tried to reach for Tom’s wrist.

Tom sat back, affronted. His voice came out a stunted whisper. “So I deserved this?”

" _No._ ” Chris scooted closer but Tom leaned further back, lifting his hands away from Chris’s searching grip. “That’s not what I—.”

“I can’t believe you just—.” He scoffed, swallowing around bile. “This is victim-shaming, Chris.”

“No, goddammit. I didn’t mean that.” Deeper rumble of voice, his own upset rising. He locked a big hand around Tom’s elbow but Tom yanked it back.

“Let me go.”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Tom.”

“You think I don’t know that people don’t like me, Chris? That I’m not liked because of the straightforward way I conduct myself and my business? Does this give that boy the right to ruin my life?!”

"Babe—.”

“ _Don_ _’_ _t._ ” Tom shoved his hand away, stiffening his palms and striking them faintly on Chris’s chest, pushing him back. “Don’t do that. I won’t be made the weak one. This wasn’t my fault.”His breath hitched with emotion, his eyeballs throbbing with the need to cry but feeling nothing, no moisture, only an unbearable pressure. “Fuck,”he moaned, clapping the balls of his palms to his eyes and rubbing hard.

“No. Baby, don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Just leave me!” he growled, thrusting his hands out again. But Chris continued forward, snatching his wrists and dragging his hands to the center of his chest, trapping him. He tried wrapping his long arms around the back of him, wanting to hold him tight and take this burden, but Tom couldn’t stand it that moment, couldn’t bear the touch knowing what Chris thought of him.

“I said no!” he rasped, throat swelling shut. He shoved against Chris, felt the hard connect of flesh and bone, and this time Chris let him go.

A toucher, a hugger, he knew Chris to be these things, offering and accepting comfort through physical contact. And what of pity? Or blame? For once, he was grateful for his lack of sight, never wanting to know what such a thing would look like on Chris’s face. Hanging between them was the weight of all the times Tom had lashed out at other people for daring to touch him and all the times he had so willingly given Chris that privilege, only for this moment to be borne, this shift of the iceberg.

Breathing ragged, Tom stared at nothing, feeling the tower that was Chris beside the bed, risen to his feet like some great sequoia, and what enraged Tom all the more was how he missed him already.

“You’ve hurt me just now, Chris. I didn’t expect it of you.”

Maybe he didn’t have need to see Chris’s face, because he could already imagine the slow crack of it, the loosening jaw, the drooping brows, the sadness. Someone as wonderfully bright as Chris would feel it astutely, and Tom was surprised by the regret he felt bloom over it.

They were quiet, and then he felt the shift in the air, the colder space by his bedside. Chris had walked away. The hole that opened up in Tom’s chest was sudden and jarring, like a burn. He might have whimpered, hands fisting in the sheets, but he couldn’t be sure. Blood was rushing through his ears and it felt like the ocean.

The door to his hospital room creaked open and he realized with sudden clarity that Chris was his only friend in that entire place.

“I like you, okay? I do,” Chris whispered. A tense moment passed, long enough that Tom thought he had left. “I’m sorry,” he added quietly. 

Tom heard the door click closed and then the yawning quiet of an empty room. His breath escaped him in a sigh, hands lifting to cup his face. Even though tears refused to come, he couldn’t help the ragged sobs that bubbled up his chest and poured into his palms, the memory of Chris’s warmth already fading, replaced only with the fiery anger of his predicament, the circumstance into which he was thrust.

“It’s not my fault,” he whispered, curling around his pillow, his back to the doorway. “It’s not my fault.”

**

Chris kept his distance, if only for a short while, Tom’s words driving him into the background of his few evaluations over the next two days. He listened with rapt attention as Tom responded monosyllabically to Eva’s questions, cooperating only minimally as she checked his blood pressure and brought him his meals, which he hardly touched. Chris ached to sit by his side and coax Tom into a bite or two, knowing –if they weren’t arguing –that Tom might mutter and pretend to be opposed but he would eat in the end. Chris loved that about him. Like a little prince, Tom wanted to be preened and cajoled when he liked the person doing it, completely rebuffing them if he did not.

And Chris had felt like the sun when Tom had chosen him above all others to be friendly with. To say that he felt like an asshole for having lost that gift because of his thoughtless words was an understatement.

Tom was right. This wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t to blame. From what Genevieve had found out about Stephen, he truly had been dealing with some very personal home issues and was under a tremendous amount of strain. But Tom’s treatment of him –completely professional and not at all terrible –was no excuse for what Stephen did to him. And Chris had made it seem as if Tom’s behavior had been the catalyst of this tragedy, when it never had.

With his workload lightened, he’d been able to dedicate more free time to producing the saline he hoped would restore Tom’s sight, testing it on a series of eyeballs before he felt even remotely comfortable exposing Tom to it, but even that wasn’t enough to keep him away from Tom’s room entirely. He hovered at the window when on his rounds, peering in through the blinds at where Tom shifted about on the bed, rubbing his eyes and generally refusing to turn toward the door. It made Chris itch with a mad yearning he was beginning to identify as his singular need for Tom.

“Fuck,”he murmured, rubbing a hand down his face. It had been three days and Tom still hadn’t broken his silence with him. With a twinge of affection, Chris believed wholeheartedly that Tom was one to hold a grudge. But the fact that it was towards him nearly drove him to drink.

He paced the hallway outside Tom’s door, glancing in through the slanted blinds at every turn. Tom lay slumped under his bedcovers, asleep at this late hour. The entire floor was hushed with slumber and quiet work, the nurses talking in whispers at their station. He studied Tom, standing on his tiptoes to see more of his face, the sharp angle of a cheekbone, the straight line of that arrogant, aristocratic nose. His curls were fluffed in lazy spirals, the way they always got when he napped, and his brows were scrunched. Maybe his dreams were bad, Chris thought.

“What’s his temperature?” he whispered to Eva, who glanced up from her desk. She peered at the panel of numbers above their station.

“102. If it goes up another three degrees the alarms will start up.”

“Has he been given acetaminophen?”

“Not today.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Over the time Tom had been hospitalized, Chris had quickly learned that Tom got fevers when he was upset, especially at night when he would sweat gently, skin flushed and moist, hair sticking to his scalp in loose waves. Some people got headaches, some people had trouble breathing, some people got so ramped up with emotion they needed to vent it out through physical exercise.

But Tom, he got fevers. Usually mild, unlike that first one that he’d suffered just after being brought in by the ambulance. Fevers that would spike his body temperature only enough to make him writhe weakly and give him bad dreams. They weren’t life threatening, but they were great indicators of his true feelings.

It was the moans that hurt Chris the most, the soft mumbles, hearing them rise from Tom’s still form on the bed, small and vibrating, full of anguish. If only he could lie down with him and hold him close, soak up his fever-sweat tremors, kiss his brow and rub his narrow back—.

Chris blinked and cleared his throat, retreating to the medicine cabinet.

Walking into Tom’s room now, he took cautious steps toward the bed, a syringe of the fever reducer clutched in one hand. Back in the spot he usually occupied beside Tom’s bed, he couldn’t stop himself from cupping Tom’s head, feeling the heat bleed into his palm, a seeping radiation that made Chris uneasy. Tom didn’t fully rest when he was feverish. He woke disgruntled and a bit confused, blinking around as if only just remembering that he couldn’t see.

Holding his I.V. line carefully, Chris injected the acetaminophen and watched it travel up the clear tube and into the needle stuck in a vein on the back of Tom’s hand. Tom didn’t stir.

“Hey,” Chris whispered, bending low. The soft red light from behind Tom’s bed glowed in a humming bubble over the room, leaving the edges in darkness. Tom’s features were washed in crimson, his brow bunching again, moaning quiet.

Chris trailed a hand from Tom’s scalp to his cheek, where the fever was less moist, burning more. He missed touching him. Even the small chances they got in the bustle of hospital life, he loved how Tom responded to him, his features softening drastically, his limbs loosening as he turned whole-bodily toward Chris, all of his focus on him.

“I miss you,” he said, sitting at the edge and cupping his neck. Tom’s brow smoothed over, and Chris’s heart flipped, wondering if he felt him somehow even through the fog of fever. Encouraged, he sat forward and slipped his hand into Tom’s. “I do. I miss you. Little Prince. I’m so sorry.”

He petted his golden curls and nuzzled at him, nosing around his ear and inhaling. Still under the heavy blanket of his fever, Tom roused sluggishly, his blinks heavy, his tone lifting up sharply, confused. And then he took a breath, and knew.

Lifting a hand from the sheets, he clasped loosely to Chris’s forearm.

“Little prince?” he rasped, star-eyes like oiled marble in that crimson.

Chris laughed quietly, grin splitting his face. He clasped the side of Tom’s head, soaking in every twitch, every blink.

“Yes! Yes, Little Prince. My haughty and dignified frost king.” He licked his lips and inched forward some more, their faces closer, Tom staring somewhere near his mouth with an expression rapt. “Contemptuous and reserved, as only the best can be, mighty in your grace and disdain, eminent and beautiful. Cold and distant. Little Prince. And I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I was wrong to have insinuated you were to blame in what happened. It was a crass and careless thing to say, and you were right to be offended. I’m sorry.”

Wincing, Tom rose to an elbow, swaying lopsided. Chris grabbed his shoulders and steadied him, and Tom glanced up, a grateful smile on his lips. Chris very nearly wept.

Once resting upright against the pillow, Tom reached his hands and Chris returned to within an inch of him, fingers wrapping together.

“I was angry at you, Chris.”

A hot whisper, ashamed. “I know.”

"This thing about Stephen came out of nowhere. I know that people sometimes just react, and maybe I was the unfortunate person in his path at that breaking point. And maybe it was what he considered to be my unfair treatment of him. I don’t know. I can’t know the boy’s thoughts. But it happened. And I’m rather furious about it.”

"You have every right to be.”

“You are the only person I trust in this place, Chris. The only one I feel comfortable with. So when you said that, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t stand it. That you would be against me too.”

“I wouldn’t! I’m _not_.” Chris swallowed and took a deep breath, gaze cast down on the red-tinted thread of the blanket. “I’ll do anything for you, Tom. So that you’re happy. I haven’t been able to stop looking at you since they wheeled you in here the night of your accident. I can’t tell you how excited I am to come to work, because I get to see you. You fascinate me.”

A palm fumbled softly up his neck and pressed to his cheek, still hot with fever. Chris lifted his gaze and stared at the stars he loved so much, had possibly even dreamed about the night before, not entirely sure but waking in his room at dawn with the taste of night sky in his mouth.

“Christopher Bear,” Tom whispered, still sapped of energy, lying heavily against his pillow. But his fingers started to curl around the back of Chris’s nape, drawing through the thick tufts of his hair, and Chris, pulse jumping and heating his skin, couldn’t stop the small groan from spilling between his lips as his eyes flicked over inch of Tom’s face, settling finally on the smile that tugged on his thin lips, lashes spiked thickly.

"Can I—?”

" _Yes_.”

Jumping forward the last few inches, Chris sealed his mouth over Tom’s as he groped along the plastic switches above the bed. The red light saturating the room flickered out, flooding it in darkness as they both moaned into the kiss. Tom wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, but Chris felt a daring comfort in the sudden dark, knowing none could spy them. Braver, he wrapped his arms around Tom’s back and dragged him forward, taking his burning body and smashing him against his chest. Tom gave a small, muted cry and grabbed his shoulders, digging his blunt nails into the meat of them. With Tom’s lips parted, Chris moaned again and slipped his tongue forward. Tom inhaled sharply, eyes flying open, but his tongue was a tentative, curious muscle that bumped his with its slicked tip and Chris smiled, deepening the kiss.

Tom clung to him the harder, grasping at Chris’s back with trembling fingers overly warm and moist, shifting up to trace the twisted tuft of coarse hair along his nape. He was burning still, the medication only just now easing the ache in his limbs and cooling the fire in his blood. But still he fought to pull himself fully into Chris’s embrace, into the very seat of his lap, his frost king melting like a blanket of snow struck with the first sun.

For just this solid moment, Chris might even have allowed himself to believe that they were on his bed back home and that Tom was safe and his, but if he continued that line of thought this would quickly escalate into something he wanted to keep strictly private between himself and Tom. And if Tom wanted to continue this, well, he was extremely aware of how unwilling he was to deny Tom anything.

They broke apart with a soft smack. Tom’s eyes remained closed for a few moments, lips parted as he let out a shaky breath. But then he blinked his stars open, appearing eerily to look directly at Chris, the wet of his eyes dotting with the small bit of light coming in from the hallway.

“So? Little prince.”Chris cupped his cheek and kissed a small line from the tip of his nose to his ear. “Do you accept the humble apologies of your most devoted subject, my frost king?”

“Yes,” Tom said softly, voice wobbling. “I forgive you. And I missed you too, Chris.”

“Good,” Chris said, bumping their noses together. “Because being away from you, even for this small bit of time, was excruciating. And now that I know you’ll not be sad anymore, your fever will go away.”

Tom dripped his chin, eyes crinkling. “Found me out, did you? I’ve had that happen since I was a boy. Can’t control it.”

“You are delicious and lovely and tender and laced with ice and snow, this skin and heart, can you feel it?”He grazed both thumbs over Tom’s sharp cheekbones, as if there he flaked away spider-webbed frost, glittered ice powder.

“Yes,” Tom moaned, squeezing his waist harder, angling himself in.

“I can too. And I love that your reserve is for everyone but me. This is what you needed, isn’t it? Someone to hold you? Break through and touch you?”

“So much,” Tom said with his neck exposed, head hanging back heavily, cradled by Chris’s palm. Chris mouthed at his throat, leaving a warm trail of kisses. “There were never any who tried hard enough. Who gave up after not getting immediately what they wanted. Who never proved to me their worth? Cowards,” he said through gritted teeth, hand straying through Chris’s hair again. The hard-bitten emotion of years of questioning and doubt and fortitude against all he believed weren’t worthy of him hitched in his voice, stilting his breaths as he sniffed quietly. “All but you, my darling.”

Chris stared down at him, flicking his gaze between Tom’s eyes, the stars concealed in the dimness. And then he gathered Tom up again, crushing him in a hard hug. Tom exhaled into their embrace, clasping him just as tightly.

“Fuck all those guys. I’m here now.”

Tom shook with a burst of laughter. “Thank goodness for that, my dearest.”

**

Tom lay awake for a long time after, fingers pressed to his lips, remembering with small bursts of arousal the kiss he’d shared with Chris. Stubble-burned and swollen, he smiled and slid a hand down his chest, biting his lip to hold in the moan of pleasure he felt threatening. He squeezed his legs together and imagined Chris between them, that heavy weight, his core growing hot with want. His groin tightened and his head fell back, a small whimper slipping through. Such awakening, such need. He hadn’t felt it in ages, skin prickling with chills, flushed and so sensitive. The flood of blood, the hardening.

“I want to see you,” he breathed, the room pulsing with emptiness. “One day…please. Let me—.” He squeezed his cock and winced, mouth parting. “Let me see him.”

A sharp yank of strong arms at his back, hauling him in with all his strength, arching his back at his will. Full lips sliding from ear to ear, the flutter of lashes brushing, mouth to mouth, slip of tongue, crushed to him always.

 _Little prince,_ he heard, a wispy echo in his head, and Tom trembled and peaked at a nipple, tugging once more between his legs before gasping his heartbeat into the dark.

**

It was with a sense of acute trepidation that Chris finished the final solution to the formula he hoped –wholeheartedly –would help dissolve the shell caps sealed over Tom’s eyes. He sat in his office for a long while holding the flask in his hands, hoping to infuse it with his very feelings for Tom, for good luck. Tom was asleep still, sedated only minimally to leave him relaxed for when Chris would administer the first round of drops.

After Tom’s shower, a representative from his laboratory visited with Tom earlier that day. The woman expressed her sincere regret about what had happened to Tom, assuring him that Stephen had been apprehended. Tom made it clear he did not wish to speak to the boy, and hoped that the insurance companies and the police were competent enough to handle everything on their own. The woman smiled easily, no doubt accustomed to dealing with ornery clients.

“Don’t worry, Doctor. Your involvement in this will be completely minimal. Through your lawyer only, actually. We’ll get this settled. As for your medical coverage, the laboratory will handle all hospital expenses and provide you with a day-time nurse while you recuperate.”

“Nurse?” He cut a glance in Chris’s general direction, and Chris stepped forward.

“After we see the results of the dissolving solution, you will be allowed to go home, Tom.”

"Oh,” was all he said, and Chris took in the way his fingers tightened on the blanket.

The woman continued. “Authorities have questioned the young man and he’s admitted to having tampered with your formula.”

Chris touched his shoulder. “Which is why what splashed in your eyes was so different from what you designed. He compromised your work, Tom. This wasn’t your fault. And the caps over your eyes aren’t a reflection of the dye you designed. This is all on him. Okay?”

Tom hesitated before he nodded, wondering how Chris could have known he had been doubting the effectiveness of his research, the effectiveness of his formula. But as another doctor –even from a different field –Chris had no doubt suffered such self-doubts before.

After the woman had left, Chris gave Tom the sedative and told him he would return shortly with the drops. Tom, already fading away, had nodded and held his wrist until just after losing consciousness.

Convinced it was now or never, Chris took the stairs two at a time and returned to Tom’s room. It was early evening, the winter sky darkening much sooner than usual. Chris told Eva his plans for Tom’s eye drops and asked for privacy. She agreed and shut all the blinds, closing the door behind her. Per hospital policy, Tom had been required to sign an official waiver to relieve the hospital of responsibility should Chris’s tests fail and cause further damage to Tom’s eyes. Tom had signed it willingly and immediately, showing with one crooked flourish of a pen the depth of his trust. Chris was determined not to fail him.

Two of Tom’s fingers showed blotted dots of ink where the pen had leaked, and Chris squeezed them gently, hoping to rouse him.

“Little prince,” Chris whispered, sitting into the hollow space of Tom’s curled body, leaning his weight in and hugging his back. He nosed at his temple with a smile. “Wake up. It’s time.”

Stirring faintly, Tom shifted and eased back into sleep, drawn into wakefulness again only by Chris’s whispers and the tickle of his stubble.

“My frost king, come back to me now. It’s okay. Wake up for me.”

A dozen slow blinks later Tom finally did, rolling onto his back and rubbing at his eyes. Free of fever, he was flushed now only from the sweet pull of deep sleep, lines formed into his cheek from the pillowcase. Hair ruffled and slack-limbed, Chris felt a tender curl of desire in his belly for Tom and he bent in to kiss his cheek. It was a look he hoped to see on Tom for many mornings to come, tucked away in one of their beds back home, his sleepy king.

Tom hummed and smiled. “What a way to wake up.”

“I do spoil.”

“Only the best for your king.”

“You like that, huh?”

“Oh, yes. My heart throbs. Say it again.”

Chris nuzzled his cheek. “Little Prince. My Frost King. Mine.”

Rather adorably, Tom giggled quietly and they kissed. “Mmm. Excellent.”

"So how do you wanna be for this—.”

“On my back with you on top.”

Chris pinched his cheek. “ _Stop_. Or I will take you right here.”

“Promises, promises,” Tom hummed.

Drowsy still, he lay back while Chris adjusted the bed, holding the remote button while the angle declined horizontally.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Thank you, darling. ”He rubbed at his face again and then sighed up at the ceiling, hands falling docilely to his stomach. Chris prepared a sterile dropper and suctioned up the dye he’d created, designed to be a clear liquid so that it wouldn’t compromise his ability to track its progress over the jet black cap of stars on Tom’s eyes.

“Now. I’ll lift your eyelids, but try to keep your eyes as wide as possible. I’ll put one drop in each eye and then see how that goes before adjusting. Tomorrow I might try two drops.”

“For how long?”

“Twice a day for three days.” When Tom said nothing, Chris ran a hand through Tom’s hair. “You won’t fight me, king? Like that first night?”

“I was in terrible pain then, Christopher. And you were just another stranger. I know better now.”

“Thank you, babe.”

He gave him a quick, firm kiss and then told him to hold still.

**

There was no pain. No burn or stings. Just another slimy liquid under his eyelids. Tom was desperate to blink but he held still under Chris’s big hands, lending their warmth to his face as Chris administered a single drop to each eye.

His own hands had risen to twist in Chris’s shirt, his courage be damned, seeking the comfort he needed as yet another foreign substance was splashed under his lashes.

Chris asked if he was in pain or discomfort and Tom gasped a quiet no.

“Good. You can rest then. Keep your eyes closed and let the solution’s potency do its work.”

“Like a spell.”

“Yes,” Chris whispered, smoothing a long thumb over Tom’s brow. “Like a spell. Magic for my prince. Fairy dust and angel wings. Anything for you.”

"Quite fanciful for us, men of science.”

"Anything,” Chris repeated, inhaling at his temple. “For you.”

A surge of emotion seeped through Tom’s chest, words like these still surprising and lovely and most welcome. It was a warmth he never thought could affect him so strongly, words he realized he missed when he hadn’t really had them to begin with.

“Sleep, babe. I’ll check your eyes in a few hours.”

“Don’t leave. Will you stay, my bear?”

Chris kept a hand over his scalp, a soothing gesture that Tom hoped to hold on to for as long as possible, afraid his anxiety would begin its inevitable spike as soon as it disappeared. Hospital settings weren’t exactly new to him, having spent most of his understudy in the basement of chemistry labs with their fluorescent lighting and bare white walls and linoleum floors, but without his sight the entire place felt like a yawning mouth ready to swallow him whole. Noises were louder, smells more distinct and disturbing and _foreign_ , not to mention his complete inability to gauge a person by the simple lift of an eyebrow, or the sobering weight of a shamed blush. Tom prided himself on his independence and distance from people, but Chris –and this unfortunate lack of sight situation –had brought out in him the strange and rather curiously pleasing need for comfort and affection, even if the environment severely unsettled him.

The bed dipped beside him, heat seeping into his belly from where Chris sat. Tom curled forward and squeezed his eyes shut. A tiny drop of moisture spilled from under his lashes, but a broad thumb wiped it away.

“Are they irritated?”

“A bit, yes.”

“Don’t rub them.”

"I’m _not_.”

“As long as you’re not in pain.”

“And what about the never ending itching? How about that?”

"Don’t get cute with me, Little Prince.”

“But it’s such fun, darling.”

“I really can’t wait until I have you alone.”

"Yeah?”

“Truly alone. With no one walking past the door, or glancing in through the blinds.”

Tom lifted his head, alarmed. He turned his blind gaze toward the door. “Do they really?”

Chris chuckled. “No. They’re all too busy to pay attention.”

“And what will you do with me when we’re alone, Christopher?”

He flinched in surprise when he felt the rasp of a stubbled cheek slip near his own, and he lifted his hands to hold Chris’s arms. He was leaning so close, his scent overpowering Tom, who gulped and inhaled quietly, trying to calm his beating heart.

"So many things,” Chris whispered. “Naked things. Okay?”

Tom nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

“I so look forward to holding you. Really hold you. Will you squirm?”

“Maybe.”

"Will you hold me, too?”

“Always, darling.”

“I really hope this works, babe,” he said, shifting the pad of his thumb over Tom’s closed eyelid.

“It has to.” Tom lifted his chin and Chris immediately bent low to kiss his lips, both going still, both making a small noise in their throats. When they broke apart, Tom was panting through his mouth, one hand tangled in Chris’s hair.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you, Christopher Bear.”

**

Over the next three days, Chris continued to administer the drops to Tom’s eyes, examining the consistency of the sealed cap, nudging it again with his naked finger to gauge if its nature had changed.

“Feels….squishier?”

Tom snorted. “Lovely medical term.”

“Is it different for you?”

“It’s still all black, but it definitely doesn’t feel as heavy. Maybe it’s thinning out.” He lifted his hands to his face but strong fingers wrapped around his wrist.

“Either way, try to avoid rubbing your eyes. I don’t want any remaining bits seeping into your brain.”

"It’s much too late for that.”

“Well, I have heard rumors that you’re some kind of mad scientist.”

“Fear me, then.”

“Oh, I do, Little Prince. And this spell you have me under.”

They clasped each other’s hands and laughed quietly, and it wasn’t until a throat cleared softly at the door did they spring apart.

"Eva,” Chris said, and Tom ducked his head low, hating himself for blushing.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the head nurse said with something like a smile in her voice. “But I have Dr. Hiddleston’s release paperwork ready. It has all his insurance’s information, too. Seems like he’ll be getting an at-home nurse.”

“From here?” Chris took the papers, flipping through them as he read.

“From an agency.”

“Does it say for how long?” Tom asked.

“No. But a nurse will be with you from 8am until 5pm.”

“Great,” Tom muttered, turning away.

When Eva left, Chris took his hand. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ll help you, too.”

“You’ll come visit me?”

“Yes. After I’m off work. Which will be around the time your nurse will be leaving.”

“I suppose I’ll have to deal with it. But at least I’ll be at home and not in a place I’m unfamiliar with.”

“I’m going to miss you here. I’ve liked having you close by, peeking in through your blinds.”

"Ah. So you’re the reason I feel my ears burning.”

"Mostly it’s the nurses. They all have a huge crush on you.”

Tom’s brows bunched together. “What?”

Chris chuckled. “I’m kidding. Well, not really. Hey, I’ll go see you tomorrow at home, okay?”

"Do you need my address?”

"Nope. I kinda have access to your medical files.”

Tom chuckled and then sighed, leaning his head back on the pillow. “Let it be over with then.”

**

His house smelled funny. He’d been at the hospital almost three weeks and had no one check on his place to gather his mail or wipe at the counters or things of that nature. He could feel the dust, even in the air. It was the first thing he apologized for to the nurse, after sneezing a half dozen times himself.

“It’s cool, man,” Michael said, moving around in the kitchen. He was fixing them some tea. “If you don’t mind, I can tidy up a bit.”

Tom hadn’t minded in the least, listening to the sounds of the man walking around as he sipped his Earl Grey, dusting and sweeping at the corners of his house, straightening and tying up the curtains to let in some light. One of those inherently cheerful types, the kind that seemed completely unfazed by even some of Tom’s more dour moods, Michael was a talker, going on about his fantasy football league and his niece’s basketball tournament and his hikes up Dustbowl Canyon with his dog, Skipper. Tom didn’t mind the chatter, piping in every once in a while, even if sports wasn’t really his favorite topic of interest. It was a vastly different kind of company than what he’d experienced at the hospital, finding everyone except Chris nearly insufferable. As much as he had been opposed to having a full-time nurse, he couldn’t deny Michael’s helpfulness.

Everything was suddenly nonsensical. He couldn’t even serve himself a glass of water without overfilling it every time. He’d stubbed his toes on nearly every wall corner, banged his thighs and clipped his wrists, his skin no doubt a collage of bruises. Michael was quick to fetch things and guide him away from potentially painful encounters with his furniture, and Tom had muttered a quiet ‘thank you’more times than he could count.

He had been immensely surprised to discover his nurse was male, a fact that had even bypassed Chris’s usual sharp scrutiny, admitting to Tom in a quiet whisper, “I mistakenly read Michael as Michelle.”Tom had laughed and kissed him on the cheek, clumsily bumping his jaw first.

“Don’t you be jealous now. I have eyes for no one but you.” He blinked up to display his stars and Chris had moaned softly and leaned in, planting a more accurately aimed kiss right on Tom’s mouth. He visited Tom every day after work, as promised, shaking hands gruffly with Michael before the nurse took his leave. And then it was to the kitchen to prepare their dinner, helping Tom to the table or down the hall, or guiding his elbow so he avoided more aching toes.

It was something new every night, steak and chicken and shrimp with salad and soft rolls with wine and a little something sweet just after. Tom had never eaten so fully before, blushing at Chris’s teasing, calling him his blue-feathered bird.

“And after,” Chris would say, guiding Tom to the sofa, both sitting down where the middle dipped low.

"You get me,” Tom finished in a whisper, smiling, angling his chin up so that Chris could mouth at the skin of his neck.

It hadn’t progressed further than that. Kisses and cuddles and bruises Chris told him were darkening by the day. Alone in the bathroom after a shower, Tom felt around his neck and clavicle, fingering around the sore edges, wishing more than anything that he could see the hickeys that Chris had so lovingly sucked into his skin, Tom's belly tingling with anticipation at what he knew came next. But once out of the stuffy hospital atmosphere, they proceeded with gentle caution, as if the sudden privacy made them that much more aware of the freedom to take this slow. That tasting each other's skin and lying flat to absorb each other's warmth was the sweetest gift for the moment, that maybe they were both waiting for the inevitable return of Tom’s sight to delve further into their burgeoning feelings for each other, and the physical urges that came with them. Tom only hoped that such elevated hopes weren’t dashed dreams.

It was on a Tuesday a week after Tom had returned home that he felt the first tears. He had just risen that morning, groggy and trying to place east from west when a bead of moisture slipped under his lashes and trailed a warm path down his cheek.

He gasped and lifted a finger to wipe at the teardrop, holding it up as if he could see it.

Rubbing it between his thumb and pointer finger, it felt stickier than a normal salt tear, thicker even. The more he blinked the more he felt coagulated moisture begin to gather under his eyelids. He twisted at the waist with a small exclamation. Ever since returning home he’d started keeping his cell phone under his pillow for easy finding. Locating it now, he held the home button down and listened as the phone’s voice assistant came on.

“Call Chris!”

When Chris answered Tom gripped the phone tightly to his ear.

"Chris! Darling, something’s happening.”

“Babe? What is it? Are you okay?”

Tom explained about the gooey substance leaking from his eyes and Chris shouted that he would be there as soon as he could. Excited, and a little afraid, Tom stumbled his way to the bathroom to relieve his bladder and brush his teeth. Chris burst through the front door thirty minutes later just as Tom was pulling a new shirt on over his head. The liquid had continued pouring down his face, but he was afraid to touch it in case Chris needed to examine it further.

Chris called out from the hallway. “Babe?”

Tom took a step toward the bedroom but clipped his shoulder on the doorjamb, and he hissed as pain flared down his arm. He rubbed the sore spot. “Here, darling!”

The door opened and then the space directly before him became swallowed up with heat. Chris took his arms.

“Jesus fuck, Tom.”

“What is it? Am I bleeding? It feels sticky.”

"No. It’s not blood.” Warm hands cupped his cheeks as Chris’s thumbs swiped at the liquid. “Your eyes, babe. They’re…wow.”

"What _is_ it, Chris?”

“The liquid, your _tears_ , are black. I think the caps are breaking apart!”

Tom cursed. “Do I look like that little girl in that scary Japanese movie?”He could hear his voice rising in panic.

Chris laughed, drawing him in for a hard hug. “Only much prettier, babe. Okay, come into the bathroom with me. And I’ll take a better look.”

Sitting on the sink counter, Tom held still as Chris dabbed at his face with a moist towel and muttered to himself about the gunk falling free of his eyes.

“It’s not as much of the caps as I would like. But your tear ducts are working again and making up for lost time it seems. It’s your eye’s way of cleaning itself. Are you in pain?”

Tom blinked away the ache. “Not really. A tad sore as usual.”

“Good. Because I put a slight numbing agent into my saline. Can I try rinsing out your eyes?” Tom nodded and they moved to the shower, Chris taking care to guide Tom. “It’s obvious my saline worked to some extent. I’ll put you on a new set of doses starting today.”

“Chris, do you really think it’s working? I’m –I’m hesitant to get my hopes up.”

Arms wrapped around him again and Tom gave himself over to the embrace, squeezing Chris’s back and pressing his face to his neck. Emotion welled in his chest, but he quelled it as best he could.

“I do, babe. I do believe it’s working. This is the biggest break we’ve had! Aren’t you happy? ”He rubbed a big hand down Tom’s spine, and Tom sagged further against him.

"Yes. I am. I’m just…just trying to be realistic. I don’t want to be disappointed.”

"You let me worry about that. Baby steps. Now take everything off but your boxers. Your shirt’s on backwards.”

"Goddammit,” Tom muttered just as the doorbell rang. “That’s Michael. He should know I’ll be indisposed for a few minutes.”             

“How about I send him home today? I told Eva I wouldn’t be back.”

Tom cast his gaze up, a smile beginning to form. “Really?”

“Yes. Just give me a minute.” Chris left and Tom started yanking off his clothes. He fumbled along the wall and finally found the knob to open the tub faucet. Sinking to sit at the rim he dipped his fingers into the gushing water and let it run warm. More thick tears leaked down his cheeks but he didn’t wipe them away. He really liked the feeling when Chris did that himself.

The door shut softly behind him, his senses buzzing to life. The skin of his back tightened in an instinctual recognition of vulnerability, and he smiled.

"Hey,” Chris whispered, kneeling behind him. He kissed Tom’s shoulder softly, letting his lips linger in a sweet nuzzle. Tom turned slightly, angling his chin down. Chris reached up and laid another kiss to his temple, his hand sliding confidently over Tom’s belly and around the other side of his waist, hooking him close.

“Hey,” Tom said, face warm. “Was Michael okay with leaving?”

“Oh yeah. Told me he could take the day and go on a hike with his dog.”        

"Hmm. Good. I’m ready now.”

“God, I’ve wanted you to say that for a while.”

Tom laughed and threw an arm around Chris’s neck, squeezing gently. “I’m ready,” he whispered again, and felt the flutter of hair on his arm as Chris snapped his head up, felt the tingle between his brows as Chris’s gaze bored into his. Were his stars intact?

"I’m—,” Chris started, voice hoarse. He broke off abruptly to clear his throat. “I’m going to rinse. Your eyes. I’m just going to…let’s—.”

“Okay,” Tom said, smiling. “Okay, my darling. It’s alright.”

“Here. It’ll only take a minute.”

Moving slowly, Tom spun on his bottom and planted his feet inside the tub. Chris wrapped a towel around his neck to collect the runoff of water and then sat next to him.

“Tilt your head back. Good. I’m going to drizzle water into each eye. Let it run through. Don’t fight me now, Little Prince.”

Tom nodded, swallowing thickly. He sought Chris’s free hand and laced their fingers together as Chris’s other hand guided his chin up. The water felt like silk compared to the slime coating his lashes, and after each wave he felt the gunk begin to loosen. Chris refilled the cup again and again, soaking Tom’s eyelashes and aiming the water under his lids.

“More is falling free. Is anything different?”

Tom blinked fast, feeling more tears gather hotly. He wiped his face and rubbed at his eyes, the itch and ache becoming too much.

“Still dark. Like I’m in a goddamn cave.” Shoulders hunched, he tried to hide his disappointment, but Chris took his hands and kissed his knuckles sweetly.

“My greedy, impatient king. Don’t be disheartened. I’m taking this as a good sign.”

Tom inclined his head and rested it on Chris’s shoulder. “How are you so full of the sun? How does that good cheer live in you?”

“It lives in you too. You just need more encouraging.”

Tom sniffed out a laugh, their bare feet nudging together under the running water.

Patting at his face, Tom said, “Honestly, I just want to make out with you and then have some breakfast.”

Chris perked up. “Yeah? Because I can arrange all of that.”

Tom hummed and leaned in again, their lips meeting in a clumsy, fast kiss.

Helping him dry, Chris toweled Tom off and then led him into the bedroom. His bed still unmade, Tom fell back against the pillows and pulled Chris with him. Their lips like magnets, they rolled to lie tangled, all eager grasps and smacking kisses. Wearing nothing but his boxers, Tom rubbed his leg along the back of Chris’s thigh, enjoying the feel of muscled, curved buttock.

“I’m sorry,” Chris said, breaking off. “I’m wearing these scratchy trousers from work—.”

“So take them off,” Tom hissed.

A gasp. “Really?”

 _"Yes_.”

Chris leaned into him, heavily, and sucked hard at his bottom lip, the clink of a belt sounding in the quiet. Tom helped push down his trousers, accepting the solid weight of Chris’s body as their legs kicked and flailed to rid him of the scratchy material. When it was only the furred length of Chris’s legs, Tom tugged him closer by the collar of his shirt, their mouths bumping. Chris collapsed on him between his thighs, both startling when their crotches brushed, lips parting with a smack as they inhaled.

"Tom. You feel amazing.”

“So do you. So good. Will you roll harder on me?”       

Chris’s hips jumped forward and Tom groaned, beginning to feel the pool of heat in his belly, sinking low to his groin, where he began to harden, incredibly, so soon.

'Yeah, babe. Fuck yeah. Move against me. Just like that.” Chris moaned against his neck, mouthing at the bumped ridge of his vein. He made pleased, curious sound in the back of his throat. “You have a triangle of freckles here.”

"What of it?” Tom whispered, grabbing a handful of flexed buttock and squeezing.

“I have a triangle too. See? Just here.”

Tom groaned and let his head fall back. “I literally can’t see, Christopher.”

"I know! I’m sorry. It really is a terrible word, ‘see’. But here,” he said, taking Tom’s hand and bringing it to his waist. He danced the tip of Tom’s finger in three quick dots. “Just here. A triangle, to match yours.”

Tom smiled and let his hand stay cupped Chris’s waist, covering the triangles, deciding to keep them for his own. “So it’s fate, then? My freckle prince? In case we were wondering?”

Chris chuckled and kissed the tip of his nose, humming at Tom’s small flinch of surprise.

“I like that. Freckle Prince. And yes, it’s fate then. We’ve decided.”

“Good. Because I love a man who’s decisive.”

All big hands and powerful thighs, Chris settled more firmly against him, their chests and bellies crushed together, lips sealed around moans and gasps that heated Tom’s blood. Lashes fluttering, moist still with shower water and tears, he grinned up at the ceiling as Chris whispered his name against the bump of his Adam’s apple, hot breath and scrape of teeth, chills erupting like the spread of fire on his skin.

Feeling around the small of his back, Tom breathed in the scent of Chris’s shoulder, trailing a path to the crook of his neck and up behind his ear, taking his earlobe and nibbling. Chris shuddered, buttocks clenching as he thrust against Tom again, pleasure bubbling between them like sparks in the dark.

“You…oh, my darling. Yes. You’re divine. I’ve wanted to feel you for ages. And you’re –you’re so—.”

“Yeah? You like that?” Chris rocked against him and Tom grinned, lifting his hips to meet him.

"I fucking love it. Harder. Don’t stop. Please.”

It wasn’t midmorning and already Tom felt the day spiraling away from him, bucking against his boyfriend, meeting him thrust for thrust, their cocks like iron rods in their boxer shorts. Falling into a rhythm where Chris pushed down and Tom rocked up, they soon felt their orgasms looping through their bellies and snapping tight. Neck hanging back, Tom arched high, chest bumping into Chris as he came with a sharp cry. Chris mouthed at his cheek and jaw, mumbling sweetly about star fire and blushing fields of honey. And when he came soon after, rolling hips and pulsing cock, he groaned against Tom’s mouth, deepening the kiss with tongue and a gentle scrape of teeth, endearingly youthful.

Gasping, they lay together on his rumpled sheets, Chris a heavy blanket of sweaty, smooth skin and rounded muscle. Tom lay under him with welcome ease, panting at the ceiling, his chin resting in the fragrant crook of Chris’s neck. Up and down the long line of his spine, he trailed his fingers, wanting to memorize the exact moment it dipped low just before the small of his back, the dimpled tailbone. Between them, in the heated core of their boxers, puddles of their cum dripped along their flaccid lengths, and Tom laughed when Chris squirmed down on him, spreading the mess.

“You’re like a puppy!” Tom exclaimed, hugging his neck and blinking up at him.

“I’m so happy, Tom,” Chris said quietly, his honesty spreading over Tom’s lips like a tingling balm. “You’re smiling and glowing and laughing and you’re so beautiful. And you’ll see again. Very soon. I can feel it.”

"I truly hope so, darling,” Tom whispered, cuddling into Chris’s chest and sighing against his throat. “Because I like being this happy with you. And I want, above all, to see you.”

Chris smoothed his brow with kisses, and petted his hair. “You will, babe. Soon.”

**

Through the terrible dark he’d lived with more for the better part of a month, Tom was beginning to discern what he called Christopher’s sparks. They were like jewels, glitter dust and firework fringe, solid enough to make him believe he was actually seeing bits of light. He knew it was only his imagination, ashamed to even consider himself whimsical enough to smile at the floating orbs of light he _thought_ he could see whenever Chris entered the room. Were they real? He didn’t know and frankly, didn’t care. He let them prick and prance about in the pitch black that had become his life, smiling privately at letting himself have this small thing, for once.

And maybe it had been a trick of all the gentle beeps and buzzes and rushes of air that seemed to be the eternal soundtrack at the hospital, his eyes trying in their own way to keep up with his overworked ears. It wasn’t anything outlandish; he only thought the bubbling lights became more apparent when Chris was around. But he was starting to doubt his sanity when one mid-afternoon he was sitting on the sofa and saw the dancing lights brighter than usual.

Yet, Chris was at work. Wasn’t he?

“Chris?” he called out, wondering if maybe he had stopped in for lunch. The thought made him indecently giddy.       

“Need something?” Michael called from the kitchen.

But Tom didn’t answer, his panic beginning to mount. He blinked fast, trying to chase away the sudden spots of very real light dotting under his eyelids. But his eyes were open. What was happening?

Chris had shown Michael how to administer the second round of saline drops from his new solution, and Michael had been prompt with every dosage. Tom frequently had a cool cloth in hand to wipe at all his incessant weeping, his tears flowing of their own accord as he flipped through the television channels to hear what was on. His last dose had been four hours ago, and he was due for another any time now.

“Tom?” Michael stepped into the room, knocking on the wall as was their agreed upon signal. He must have noticed the alarm on Tom’s face. “What’s wrong? Are you alright?”

"Call Chris for me, please. I don’t know what’s happening.”

"Are you in pain? Should I call 911 instead—.”

“Call him!”

Chris arrived within the hour, pushing through the door with barely a glance at Michael, who stood in the entryway.

“Babe. What is it?”

"My eyes. There are spots of light. I don’t know—is it me? In my head? Or am I really…?”

Hands closed over his shoulders and Tom let Chris lean him back against the back of the couch.

“Is there some way I can help?” Michael asked.

"No. But thank you,” Chris said, voice shooting over his shoulder. “You can actually have the rest of the day. I’ll take it from here.”

"Tom?”

“Yes,” Tom whispered, heart racing in his throat. “You can go, Michael. Thank you for everything. I’m sorry about lunch.”

Michael promised to pack up the food he’d prepared and put it in the refrigerator. Once he left, Chris pulled Tom to his feet and guided him down the hall.

“Shit. Chris. Things are…moving. They’re moving.” He jumped closer to Chris and clung to him as he blinked about every which way.

“It’s okay. Come with me.”

Chris dragged him into the bedroom and through the far bathroom door. Moving hastily, they repeated the same process of flushing out Tom’s eyes inside the tub, Tom mumbling about shapes and bubbles filled with glitter. Chris kept a stoic face, brow bent as he concentrated on washing Tom’s face, but Tom’s hands clutched in his shirt and the small way he whispered his name kept his pulse elevated as he struggled to protect this man from something that bothered him and objectively perform the rushed procedure.

With the water gushing from the tub faucet, Tom’s eyes suddenly went very wide and he latched both hands to Chris’s head, locking their noses only an inch apart. His eyes were still obscured with black, but near the edges, where Tom’s blond lashes were clumped together in thick spikes, white was beginning to peek through.

Chris couldn’t breathe, Tom’s hands clamped hard on him. But as Tom’s eyes flicked frantically side to side, he saw a peek of ocean blue in the depth of black, and his breath rushed out in a shaky exhale.

“Chris?” Tom whispered, his long thumbs brushing over the ridge of Chris’s cheekbone.

“Yeah, babe?” Chris replied, just as breathless.

Gulping, Tom blinked again hard, but there was the blue still, a ragged crack under obsidian stone.

“I think I can see you.”

**

There was a shape. And it was blurry and fogged, but it was a shape and it was real. No matter how hard he blinked, he couldn’t get it to clear or sharpen. It was like looking through a misshapen keyhole, the shape seen through a dark outline, always shifting away. But maybe that was the flicked wave of blond hair, and lower still the fuzzy line of a round cheek. But everything was so hazy, frustratingly so, and he felt real tears threaten.

"I think I can see you,” he repeated, more for his benefit than Chris’s. He used his hands to feel more of the face he’d come to cherish, every nerve ending in his fingertips alight with the effort to memorize Chris so that when the moment finally came when he could see him properly he could tell himself that he knew the truth all along.  

"Can you really? Babe? Can you see? Even a little bit?

"It’s all blurry. And only out of a little crack, it seems.”

Chris laughed giddily, a sudden and lovely bark that had Tom grinning with him.

“I don’t know what to do with myself,” Chris admitted. “My face is burning.”

“Yours? Mine is!”

"No. You’re perfect. You’re beautiful. I love you.”

Tom’s breath caught, water gushing somewhere in another world, the tub filling steadily up their shins.

“You do?” He didn’t know it possible. No one had ever really said that to him before, and he always thought it a normal part of himself, to be distinctly unloved. Cared for, maybe. Felt affection for, perhaps. But loved?

“I do,” Chris said, taking his elbows and drawing him closer. “I love you. I hope it’s okay that I do.”

“It is,” Tom gasped, smiling. Actual tears of heartfelt emotion slipped down his cheeks and he laughed, jumping forward to hug Chris round the neck. “Oh, it is, my darling. _Love_ me. Love me, my sweetheart.”

Chris groaned and grabbed his jaw roughly, tilting his head up. The shape loomed closer, tanned skin against the white backdrop of his bathroom, and then lips were rasping over his own. His mouth yielded to Chris, and he opened for the push of tongue, moaning as they grasped at each other with arms and fingers and the bump of knees. But then Chris wrapped him tight against his chest and lifted him bodily, water cascading down Tom’s bare feet, airborne.

He gasped and cleaved to Chris, hanging on like the bride he always wished he could be, lips at Chris’s cheek to kiss and whisper and breathe on him there. Through his limited sight and the crack over his pupil, the room spun as Chris turned on a heel and headed to the bedroom. Straight to the bed, a repeat of their last venture in the bathtub, he was laid gently on his back, a warm, solid weight on him immediately after.

They grappled for a moment, both situating themselves, legs opening, hips dropping, chest to chest relief. Chris brushed his lips across Tom’s cheekbone, dragging hot mouth and scrape of teeth to Tom’s lips for a deep, quick kiss, a jolt like prism light. And then he was shifting to his other cheek, moaning at Tom’s quiet inhale, heat stirring between them.

“Oh, yes. Chris, darling. Take this off. All of it.” He tugged at Chris’s shirt, woefully aware that Chris was even still wearing his shoes. But like a bumbling puppy, Chris hurriedly agreed and slid off Tom, who leaned up on his elbows to try and see everything.

Still hazy and distorted, he could tell only that Chris had stood and was yanking off his clothing, arms lifting to pull of his shirt, a long torso twisting and stretching up. But there were no sharp details, no ridged abdomen, no texture of chest hair, no innie or outie. He wanted to see the length of clavicle and the shadowed divots of underarms. He wanted neck veins and hips bones. He wanted Chris’s nose and the spread of his brow, the tips of his ears and the skin stretched around a smile. He wanted that cock and just how heavy Chris hung.

"Lube is in the bathroom,” Tom rasped, throat dry, and Chris shot away like a light. Tom laughed and hoped to God that what he saw bobbing in front of Chris was what he hoped it was. He was ready for something so substantial and lovely in his life.

“Where?” Chris called back.

"Top right cabinet!” Tom struggled to tear off his shirt, finally launching it across the room where it toppled over a lamp. In the bathroom, something clattered loudly and then Chris was rushing back to him, a giant orb of pale skin to cover him again.

“No condoms?”

Tom’s heart froze. “I don’t have any.”

"I don’t either.”

They were silent for a moment.

“But—I trust you, Chris. And you’ve seen my records. Should we still wait?”

"I trust you, too. And I’ve been tested and everything always comes back negative.” He looked down at their tangled limbs. “It would kill me to peel myself off you right now, but I will do it if you want.”

Tom laughed and snatched him closer, planting a wet kiss on his cheek. “Don’t go. Please don’t.”

“I won’t,” Chris breathed just as their lips crashed together once more. “I won’t leave you. Ever.” Tom’s hands snuck over the curve of Chris’s spine and squeezed his buttocks, muscled and round, lovely indeed. Chris groaned and thrust against him bodily, making Tom giggle and squeeze again.

“This feels so nice,” he whispered, cupping Chris’s cock in hand. It was thick and veined, the head swollen and hot to the touch. Lower still, his balls sagged heavily, dusted with fur. “Good. You have hair. I really like that.”His hand drifted up to Chris’s chest, and felt it smooth. “But none here?”

“Nope. Ever since I was a kid. I never grew any there. Made me feel weird and uncomfortably different. But after I realized how much men spend on waxing, I accepted it.”

"Feels good on you. Smooth like silk.” Wanting to catch up to Chris’s nudity, Tom pushed at his own pajamas, trying to stay wrapped around Chris at the same time.

"Need assistance, king?” Chris laughed, tugging Tom’s pajama bottoms off his legs. And then his fingers trailed a ticklish path up Tom’s calves and over both kneecaps to grip the firm meat of his thighs.

“Look at these legs. Do you run?” Chris squeezed the lean muscle, voice quietly awed at his strong and supple flesh, tight with quiet power.

Unbidden, Tom blushed. “I do. Yes.”

Chris hummed and bent over him again, holding Tom’s legs apart. “I like that, babe. We can go running together.”

"Mm-hmm.” Tom licked his lips, legs tightening around Chris.

"But I’m actually a poor runner. Will you teach me your ways?”

"Yes.”His hands wrapped around large biceps, and he made a needy noise.

“And will you help me rob a bank and burn down an orphanage?”

“Anything for you, my love.”

“Ah,” Chris smiled. He bumped their noses together sweetly. “There it is.”

Tom blinked up at him, dazed. His expression cleared. “You didn’t know?”

“Oh, I knew. But it was nice to hear.”

“Well, I do love you. My Freckle Prince." He grinned, pleased. "As much as I didn’t expect it, being wheeled into that hospital in an ocean of pain.”

“I think about that a lot,”Chris said quietly. “That day I first saw you. I never want to see you in so much pain again.”

Fumbling for Chris’s hand, Tom took the bottle of lube. “Only the good kind of pain?”

“What kind do you like?”

“My usual three. Or four. Spanking, hair pulling, biting, hard fucking. But sometimes. Not rough always.”

“Little _Prince_.”

Tom grinned and looked down. “I know. But do as you feel comfortable, darling. Be sweet and gentle, rough and hard. Just don’t kill me.”

Chris snuffed out a laugh against Tom’s neck and they rolled on the bed to lie face to face. He wrapped a hand around the back of Tom’s skull and dragged him closer.

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me.”

Straining to see all of him through the crack over his right pupil, Tom shifted closer and spread a leg over Chris’s hip. “Darling…”

It was hard kisses and moaned whispers, blunt nails carved into firm skin, both utterly fascinated by the other. Chris coated Tom’s groin in lubricant, only after sniffing around the root of his cock and licking a thick stripe from the lightly furred cleft of his bottom to the pointed tip of his hipbone. Tom writhed and held his legs apart, head lifted to see. But it was all outlines and shadows, that big shape that was Chris, and Tom felt frustrated tears gather under his lashes and blind him even more to the person he wanted to see the most.

One finger in, Chris was slow and careful, massaging Tom’s inner thigh softly. He pulled out to rub at the rimmed muscle and then sank back in, pumping evenly, ears attuned to Tom’s every whimper and gasp. The second finger was a tighter squeeze, but when it slipped in next to the first, Tom groaned and rolled his hips, making Chris’s cock throb and swing upward. He widened and scissored, careful of pain, adoring the pale, pale insides of Tom’s legs with their film of fine golden hairs. Lying beside Tom, who kept a firm grip on Chris’s cock, Chris kissed and nipped at his ear, mouthing at every inch of his neck until the skin was red and pockmarked with small bruises.     

“Do a third. I’ll need a third finger. For you.”

Chis obliged, snapping the lube cap open and drizzling some more onto his palm. It slipped along the two fingers already inside Tom. Canting his ring finger downward, he twisted the three digits together until very softly, very gently, they popped inside and Tom groaned, long neck strained as his head fell back.

"You’re so fucking pretty,”Chris murmured, eyes wide on him. “The prettiest man I’ve ever seen. Are you mine? I can keep you?”

Bringing his gaze back up, Tom blinked and whispered his name, his eyes a mixture of stars and cracks of blue. Nearly whole.

“Yes. You can keep me. If I get to keep you.”

“Done,” Chris smiled and dropped down to kiss his waiting mouth. Tongues winding, fingers pumping, Tom began to tremble under him. Taking the hint, Chris slowly drew his fingers out and then clamped a hand on each of Tom’s thighs, widening them further.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Tom mumbled, face and chest flushed with color. He repeated Chris’s name, a slurred prayer, fingers clawing at broad shoulders to drag him closer. But Chris was tight as a bowstring, reaching low to guide the swollen head of his cock to Tom’s hole, both shaking with need.

"Fuck,” he gritted, jaw clamped, pushing in the first devastating inch. Tom collapsed back on the sheets, knuckles white around Chris’s wrists, spine arched as felt himself stretched further and further. As soon as the spongy head slipped in, they both released a moaned breath, wide smiles and long-lashed blinks.

“Baby,” Chris whispered, crowding over him to nuzzle his cheek. Tom giggled unashamedly, wrapping his arms around the back of Chris and hugging him tightly. Still shallow enough, Chris held his hips back as he slipped both arms under Tom’s shoulders, his big hands coming up to anchor him above the collarbones.

“Slow, my love. Please?”

“Anything,” Chris breathed, mouthing at his jaw and chin, biting his lower lip before sliding across a sharp cheekbone and nibbling his ear. Chills erupted over Tom’s body and he shuddered, smiling dazedly up at the ceiling, fingers carding through Chris’s sweetly blond hair, grown slightly longer these last several weeks. Faces an inch apart, Chris started to push in a little further, soaking in the small gasp Tom made, his lips a tender little ‘O’, the way his eyes stuttered under their star caps. He would burn into his memory every single aspect that made Tom lovely and regal and of the sky, his bird.

"So pretty, my prince. Aren't you? So pretty?"

"Uh-huh," Tom nodded, pecking at his lips, still clumsy but lessened from before, his limited and vulnerable sight giving him some accuracy in aim. Chris smiled and kissed him back, harder and on point, the force of which flattened Tom to the bed, long throat like a pale slip of silk on his dark blue sheets.

Fully seated, Chris steadied his hips and gave Tom a moment to adjust. Tom's brow was scrunched delicately, panting quickly through his nose. Chris was widest at the base, and so he knew Tom was feeling the most discomfort.

"Deeper, slower breaths, babe. You're going to pass out that way."

"You're just...big. Just. Just wait."

Peppering his face with soft kisses, Chris inhaled his scent and stared through the crack in the star sky.

"Can you see me? My face?"

"A little. It's so blurry. I hate it." Tom turned his head away, but Chris cupped his cheek and brought his eyes forward again.

"It's almost back. Just a little while more. Okay? Easy now, little prince."

Tom gripped the back of his neck and brought him forward, sealing their mouths together with a little sigh. Chris started moving, hips drawing back slowly and then pushing in. Quicker and quicker they fell into a rhythm that bordered on frenzied, Tom's body loose enough that his discomfort ebbed to a low burn glittered with bubbles of pleasure. Up through his belly into his chest, he felt them grow and burst, his feelings for Chris like blooms of many colors, a garden that grew with every breath.

"Am I too heavy?" Chris gasped, starting to ease off, but Tom tightened his arms around him.

"Don't you dare. I love how heavy you are."

"And I love you. My pretty prince. You’re amazing. You amaze me.”

"You do,” Tom said quickly. Despite all the pain, that first night you touched me – I haven’t been able to stop thinking of you since then. That you could touch me, and it would be okay.”

Babe,” Chris whispered, and then smiled, snapping his hips hard, ramming in the deepest. Tom jolted and cried out, nails digging into his back. "Precocious, arrogant king. Typical royalty."

Tom grinned and dug his heels into the mattress, the cradle of his hips rising, his body tightening so that Chris hissed and winced from the pressure around his cock.

"Fuck me, then, and show me my place."

"Goddamn," Chris groaned, hooking his hands under Tom's shoulders again and thrusting hard, a rough pace that made them both pant and whimper. The bed rocked and creaked, Tom’s sheets bunched and half-thrown off the mattress. And the sunlight falling in through the window was but another filter of haze over their bubble. Chris’s grip in Tom’s hair, the other hand tight over his thigh, Tom felt the coil in his belly start to wind with promise.

"You're getting me...so close," he moaned, head angled back.

Chris latched onto his throat and bit lightly.

"Yes! Yes, harder. Please. Just a little..."

Chris tightened his jaw, teeth digging in deeper, and felt the spasm that jerked Tom’s legs around him. Tom's nails scratched identical stripes down his spine and then he was shouting, back bowing up, lifting Chris just enough to make Chris gasp and stare down in awe. Neck strained, veins popping, Tom's orgasm rolled over him like a storm, electric sparks and devil winds, leaving him battered and shaking in its wake. He fell into it, suspended and languid, caught without air and light, his void of perfect pleasure.

"Babe," he heard, hands framing his face. Tom mumbled and tried sinking further into that chasm, but kisses and whispers brought him round, the sweetest resurrection. He lay under Chris as Chris hurried to his own finish, body rocking limply, holding him with arms made of cloud mist.

“Can I – inside?”

“Yes,” Tom whispered, kissing his temple.

When Chris came he felt it deep, thick spurts and a swelling that had him smiling again, Chris's groan of devastation enough to make him feel invincible for the rest of his life. How sweetly he trembled, his little lord, his devoted and mesmerizing equal.

"Freckle," Tom whispered, voice dripping with affection shown rarely to others. He cupped Chris's cheek and blinked at the fuzzy outline of his face.

"Frost," Chris panted, kissing the tip of his nose with a grin, rolling to his side and attacking Tom's neck with gentle nips and growls, heart lifting to the moon at the carefree laughs his king gave, like beats of wings across the sun, like stars in the night.

 

Epilogue:

 

It was very much like removing stubborn grit from the corner of shower tile, even if Chris’s solution was truly remarkable. It took another two weeks for the star caps over Tom’s eyes to completely break apart. His eyes continued to leak tears, black like running mascara. But as more of the caps dissolved and flowed free, his tears cleared and finally appeared normal. It became a ritual to rinse out both eyes every night before bed, standing in the tub as Chris poured water over his face, a twisted sense of baptism that blessed him with a little more sight every time. He often woke with black crusted to his lashes and the corners of his eyes, flakes that he would rub with his fingers and flick away like something disgusting and unwanted.

Chris insisted he looked just as beautiful as ever. “Your eyes are so pretty. Just like you.” Tom hummed and cuddled closer, Chris’s big hands on his face feeling like his own personal protection. “Blue, like shifting sea water. With a touch of cinnamon.”

But he did warn him not to rub his eyes so much.

“One of the pieces might be sharp enough to damage your cornea.”

“Fine,” Tom conceded, and tried not to huff as he suffered in silence. But it wasn’t for long.

As the crack over his pupils widened day by day, his sight was still extremely blurry and sensitive to light and he worried it would remain that way forever.

“Your eyes have been what I liken to dormant,” Chris explained one morning. “They haven’t gotten the exercise my eyes have had, for example, moving and focusing and adjusting every day. Covered for so long, your pupils haven’t contracted and maybe are temporarily accustomed to darkness.”

"Great. I’m turning into a bat. Have any mosquitos you need rid of? Tropical fruits to share?”

Chris laughed and pinched his ear. “No. We just get you accustomed to light again. Slowly. Baby steps.”

When most of the residue was gone from his eyes, Chris took him to see an ophthalmologist. The doctor examined both eyes and assured them that there was no superficial damage to the cornea.

“I suggest you start performing small exercises whenever you remember to do so. We can strengthen our eye muscles by closing our eyes and then opening them to focus on an object that’s at a distance. You’ll feel the muscles working, it’s fascinating. Expose yourself to different strengths of light. Your eyes may water the first few times with brighter lights, but that should eventually stop. You might need some reading glasses once your vision starts clearing, and you can come back to see me whenever you’re reading. In the meantime, would you like to look at some frames?”

Tom hesitated, ready to say no when Chris took his hand.

“Come on. I’ll help you pick a pair.” He dragged him to the showroom outside and planted him in front of the section lined with men’s styles. Tom listened as Chris murmured to himself, dismissing some brands and styles and holding others up to Tom’s face before returning to the selection. Tom tried on a few, but couldn’t decide for himself, his reflection in the offered mirror to blurry to tell if any looked good or not.

“I trust you. You can pick,” he said, rejecting the next one.

Chris finally chose one last pair, wider framed wayfarers that were dark brown, looking sharp against his pale skin.

“These,” he said, and Tom smiled.

“Okay.”

They gave them to the attendant and promised her they would set an appointment soon. The doctor met them at the door.

“Don’t worry too much, Tom. Your eyes are just out of shape right now. But the blurriness and sensitivity will diminish.” He wished them a good morning and they left the store.

Not exactly encouraged, Tom sat in the passenger seat of Chris’s car, wearing the dark Ray Bans he’d swiped from the glove compartment. Things whooshed by through the window, and he was able to discern certain objects, like trees and cars and buildings. But people were harder to distinguish, sometimes mistaking them for poles.

“I feel like a child,” he murmured, and Chris reached over to take his hand.

“You’re doing so well. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Yes, I’d rather you were hard on me.”

Chris’s head snapped around and Tom grinned, heart stuttering in happiness.

Every night he slept wrapped safely in Chris’s arms, nearly believing some mornings that he wasn’t real, that it was a distorted dream, that he didn’t deserve him. He knew Chris solely on touch, and with a single embrace or kiss or laugh smothered in his neck, he began to understand what some people described as finding a home in another person. And sometimes when he woke in the middle of the night with Chris’s mouth on his cock, head bobbing under the sheets, or when he stumbled back from the bathroom to find the sweetly warm lump that was Chris curled around his pillow as if missing him for only the minute he was gone, Tom understood his place in the world and the grander scheme of things. Love, it seemed, really was all about chemicals and their chemistry. That some mixed well and others were doomed to explode disastrously.

Through his dim-lighted house, Tom slowly regained his independence, walking unhindered. No more trailing his fingers on the wall, or patting around corners to discern objects he might knock over. Curtains kept closed, Tom didn’t at first notice his vision had begun to clear, discreetly, at the edges of his sight. Hesitating in the kitchen doorway, Tom stared straight at the bright red pen in the cup across the room. Always mistaking it for a bird feather of all things, he watched now with bated breath as it went from something fuzzy, like a caterpillar, to a sharply detailed stick of plastic and ink. He nearly dropped the cup of coffee he was holding when he finally realized. Flinging it across the counter, where it rasped and tossed liquid everywhere, Tom spun and ran back to the bedroom. Chris was still under the covers, the morning paper obscuring his face. Tom jumped on the bed and snatched it away, tossing it over his shoulder.  

Chris followed it with his eyes, confused, but then he saw the look of intensity on Tom’s face.

“What is it?”

“It’s you,” Tom said, grinning. “It’s you!”

Chris sat up, taking his wrists. “You can see me?”

Indeed he could, and it was a sight he would never forget. Eyes of the sharpest blue, Chris had a thick fringe of lashes under brows full and cleanly bushy. Nostrils slightly wide, Chris’s nose was straight and regal in its own way. His mouth, with full lips that Tom knew extremely well, was bracketed by thin laugh lines that made him seem younger somehow. Cheeks rounded only a little, his face was lean and clean shaven with short sideburns by perfect, ordinary ears. Atop a forehead that was only beginning to line, there was a dark widow’s peak. The rest of him was as hard and solid and strong as Tom knew by simple touch to be, wide shoulders and long clavicles, muscles round and firm, hands long-fingered and beautifully veined.

Chris swallowed thickly, eyes shifting nervously under Tom’s scrutiny.

“You’re not running away,” he said softly, and tears gathered in Tom’s eyes, his own feelings betraying him.

“And why would I run, you fucking gorgeous Neanderthal?” He tackled Chris in a hard hug and they fell back on the bed with bubbles of laughter and smacking kisses, hands roaming and legs locking the other closer.

“Turn on all the lights!” Tom proclaimed, smiling giddily. “Throw open every drape, so that I may see you all the better, Freckle.” 

Chris ducked his head and kissed Tom’s lips, graze of tongue all his.

"Anything for you, Frost. My king and prince.”

"Yours. As you are mine.”

 

End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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